


The Unwinding Golden Thread

by The_Carnivorous_Muffin



Series: The Unwinding Golden Thread [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Attempted Murder, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Murder, Time Travel, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-19 01:53:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 50,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15499683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Carnivorous_Muffin/pseuds/The_Carnivorous_Muffin
Summary: In his fifth year Tom Riddle discovers his destiny and meets the cold, alarming, and bizarre transfer student Harry Evans. But sometimes things unravel in ways we do not expect.





	1. Chapter 1

_“The vision of time is broad, but when you pass through it, time becomes a narrow door.”_

_-_ Dune, Frank Herbert

* * *

“A transfer student?”

Tom asked himself as his head turned in the great hall to find the unfamiliar boy. Slughorn had only just told him in the prefect’s meeting, that there was to be a fifth year transfer, a boy who’d previously been homeschooled but was now attending Hogwarts to take his OWL and NEWT courses.

Tom had never heard of anyone transferring in before, he’d assumed it wasn’t possible, but apparently it was just uncommon. Not that he cared either way, after all, what was one more student in the hallways; he was just another face to smile at and nothing more.

No, he was even less than that, with a last name like Evans. A half-blood at best probably even a mudblood like Tom was, given the way the pureblood heirs were treating him. Most of them had the great English family trees memorized by the time they were seven, and disinherited blood traitors were kept track of as well, it was unlikely that anyone with an unfamiliar last name could simply pop out of the woodworks.

His eyes moved over the blonde Abraxas, the Black siblings, all the familiar faces until at the very end of the table they found a new one.

The boy was thin, smaller than most of his peers, with dark hair and absurdly thick glasses. He was sitting on the far end of the table, away from the other students, and was watching the sorting ceremony with a strange expression on his face; partly indifference, resignation, nostalgia… a strange variety of emotions considering it was his first time seeing the ceremony.  

He seemed aloof, his posture stiff and his face pointed away from all of them. It was clear that he didn’t want to talk with any other Slytherin in spite of being friendless and new; which was all well and good since none of them seemed to have any inclination to speak to him.

(Tom had been lucky, in his first year, in knowing that he didn’t need or even like other people because the house of Slytherin had never extended him any kindness. Everything he had, everything he was, he’d earned and forced them to come to terms with. And for some of them it had taken some time and quite a bit of violence to come to terms with the mudblood genius Riddle.)

Unfortunately, as a prefect, Tom was the exception to this rule. Slughorn had made that all too clear, and even if he hadn’t, Tom’s reputation demanded he make some overtures towards the new and lost boy.

Tom made his way down to the end of the table and sat across from the boy waiting in silence for the ceremony to finish so he could hurry up and get this over with.  

Tom hadn’t noticed at a distance but the boy’s eyes were very green, the kind Tom wouldn’t have believed were possible in eyes, they weren’t a muddied hazel but instead the color of grass with the sun shining through. They would have been very striking if they weren’t hidden behind those hideous glasses.

He glanced at Tom, almost alarmed, and his expression became closed off and it became almost impossible to tell what he was thinking. He looked away, almost too quickly, and Tom could no longer read any thought behind his face.

Finally the last student was sorted, Dippet had made his speech, and the meal began, “Harry Evans, yes?”

Tom asked and the transfer student stiffened looking over towards him slowly, his eyes wide and sharp, his hand subtly reaching for a knife. For a moment it almost didn’t register, the action was so absurd, so surreal but then it sunk in. Tom’s eyes flickered to the silver, back up again, and he found himself struggling to keep the pleasant smile on his face.

A transfer student, he should have figured only a lunatic would postpone their admittance to Hogwarts for five years.

He could report him to Slughorn, it would have to only be a misgiving though as he didn’t really have any evidence, it wasn’t as if Evans had done anything yet. As it was Tom was sorely tempted to ask the transfer student if he thought reaching for a knife just as the prefect was introducing himself was very subtle.

It was also a very muggle action, a knife, and not a wand. Probably because the knife was closer, the wand no doubt in his robes somewhere, but still he really was a mudblood if that had been his instinctual choice of weapon.

Tom held out his hand, the boy’s right was clutching the knife, if he wanted to be polite he’d have to give up the idea of stabbing Tom in a very public setting. Not that Tom thought he would, children weren’t that ruthless, most people weren’t that ruthless. Oh they talked big, about slaughtering the mudbloods or cutting Tom down to size, but when push came to shove they always faltered. Whatever this was, whatever was wrong with Evans, he wouldn’t be able to go through with it.

With reluctance the boy let go and gripped Tom’s hand and again something caught Tom’s eye, there were words written on his skin.

_I must not tell lies._

He was very tempted to let their hands linger together as he shook, to read those words again, to ask why it looked like they had been carved into his hand and how magic hadn’t managed to take them out again.

He looked back up to the transfer student’s expression and from the thin grimace on Evans’ face, that knowing glint in his eyes, he knew exactly what Tom had just seen.

“Tom Riddle, Slytherin prefect.” Tom said introducing himself with a cheery grin, fighting down the irrational anger growing inside him.

Well it wasn’t really irrational, the transfer student’s first reaction on being introduced to the bloody prefect was to reach for a knife, that was pretty damn offensive now that he thought about it. Of course, Tom could handle Evans, but none the less just what did he think he was doing?

The knife, the words, there was something very wrong with Harry Evans.

“I heard, professor Slughorn told me when I was sorted.” His voice was, well, it wasn’t a particularly bad voice but the way he spoke it was like he was reading off of a script. There was no enthusiasm, no feeling, behind the words more like they were something he felt he had to say.

Like they were both just going through the motions for the benefit of the other actor.

There was a very deep irony in there, somewhere, if Tom had the time or inclination to look for it. He didn’t though, instead he felt his own smile straining further, Tom was giving a pretty good show of interest, Evans could at least afford him the same respect.

Hell, he could at least pretend he didn’t have an interest in stabbing someone he’d just met. What sort of a reaction was that? Reaching for a knife, was it Tom, or was it anyone who might grab his attention?

He was thinking far too much about this already.

“Did he? Well our head of house does like to talk. I’ll be the one giving you a tour of the castle and if you need anything, anything at all, know that you can always come to…”

The boy cut him off, “I’ll be fine.”

Tom blinked at him, his own smile dropping, Evans had cut him off. As if he’d known, no he’d known from the beginning, that Tom didn’t care in the slightest if Evans got lost or had issues with homework and friends. That Tom was acting, that Tom Riddle, the façade he’d presented and perfected for years had nothing real in him.

He was staring into Tom’s eyes again and this expression he could place, because he’d seen a watered down version of it before, contempt. Complete and utter contempt for everything he was, everything he represented, and everything he could hope to attain in life.

“I see.” Tom said shortly, it came out colder than he’d like but Evans didn’t even seem to notice the difference.

“Well, then, remember that if you ever do need help you can always find me.” Tom repeated, dully, as it was clear that if Evans ever did need help he would never come to him.

Standing from his seat, about to make his way back to his peers, to be ignored and overlooked for his lack of wealth and pedigree he looked at his new classmate one final time.

No, this was not the son of a lord, he was different than Abraxas Malfoy or any other pureblood heir. There was something wrong with Harry Evans and at a glance Tom could not put his finger on it; dangerous his mind wanted to tell him.

A fifteen year old boy, dangerous, what an idiotic notion. Unhinged, yes, but dangerous, certainly not.

With that he walked away, his trek followed by those silent green eyes, and he decided to put it out of his head the last thing he needed was to focus on something as inconsequential and unimportant as Harry Evans.

* * *

Despite almost going out of his way to ignore the new student, a habit he shared with his housemates, somehow he couldn’t help but notice Evans’ peculiar habits in spite of himself.

It wasn’t as if Evans bothered being subtle, it really was amazing that he was in Slytherin at all, because he seemed to entirely disdain every single ideal Slytherin held as a house. Every speech they received on purity, on ambition, on cunning, Tom would look over to find Evans’ eyes had hardened and his face contorting itself in an effort not to sneer.

He made no effort to make friends in his own house and instead reached out in an almost random manner to various students. Tom had caught him trying to study with the Gryffindor prefect Minerva McGonagall, trying to get her perspective on quidditch, and she was responsive to a point. She was wary, and why shouldn’t she be, when a Slytherin out of nowhere was trying desperately to be her friend.

Tom had also caught him talking to the Gryffindor half-giant Hagrid, the one who raised dangerous creatures on school grounds. One of those days one of his pets was going to get someone killed or at the very least injured. And from the rate of things it looked like Evans was going to be the first victim; it wasn’t a grand loss either way. Tom didn’t know whether Evans was uninformed or stupid but either way every so often you could look out the window and catch him hanging around the half-giant and his latest find.

Both Gryffindors, certainly, but why these Gryffindors and not others and why Gryffindors at all? Was there something inherently wrong with Slytheirn?

These were questions Tom found himself asking whenever his thoughts managed to stray in Evans’ direction; which was too often for his comfort given that the transfer student was completely irrelevant to anything of value.

There were some oddities that refused to be ignored though.

He was an insomniac, Tom had caught him more than once awake in the common room in the dead of night staring into the fire looking like someone had just died. He was always easily startled during these times, Tom had learned fairly early to make his presence well known before he entered, otherwise he’d find himself under Evans’ wand and panicked gaze.

Evans was fast with his wand, very good at dueling, and if Tom was willing to swallow his pride he might even admit that Evans could give him a good run for his money in Defense. It wasn’t that he had a large repertoire of spells, on the contrary the spells he used were rather ordinary and well known, but he was fast. His wand was moving and the words were out of his mouth before his opponent even had time to think.

He could often be found in the library, with books Tom had never bothered to look at, very advanced theory in obscure and almost muggle topics. Topics like time, space, energy, nothing illegal or even eye catching and yet whenever he caught Tom looking over his shoulder he’d immediately shut the book and attempt to hide the evidence. As if he had just revealed some terrible secret.

And whenever he and Tom crossed paths, whenever they were forced by circumstance to look at each other, there was always that unexplained contempt and disregard burning in Evans’ eyes. And each time it was no less disconcerting, as if he had been laid bare before the transfer student, no older than him, and each time he was lacking something essential.

It was the look Tom gave to the world around him, to those that could never reach him, who would be forever beneath him. Only, Evans’ look was reserved for him alone, and it seemed too solid and definite to be purely based on emotion.  

Evans never said anything of interest in these moments, never offered any explanation, made no move towards any real conversation speaking as little as possible. Yes, no, hello Riddle how are you faring today, small chat at its most monosyllabic.

Which was fine, insulting and demeaning yes, but fine; Tom didn’t have time to waste on trifles like Evans either. Some part of it was refreshing, if he thought about it, that he didn’t have to bother to pretend to care about Evans.

Evans didn’t believe it, so when they were alone why bother with the show?

It was strangely liberating.

And perhaps if he’d had the time he would have focused more on Evans. The transfer student did have his mysteries after all, but it was not an unimportant year, and as the year progressed he found himself in a position far too favorable to concern himself with a mudblood like Evans.

Because it was in his fifth year, in the beginning of that year, that he discovered what Dumbledore had never bothered telling him. A secret that could change everything, could free him from the shackles of mudbloodism.

Tom discovered from a rather mundane text that parseltongue was more than a parlor trick, that it was an inherited magic, directly from Slytherin himself.


	2. Chapter 2

“ _And always, he fought the temptation to choose a clear, safe course, warning ‘That path leads ever down into stagnation_ ”

\- Dune, Frank Herbert

* * *

Mudblood, the word was like a drum beat, and it had haunted him since he was eleven years old and perhaps earlier. The idea of heritage, of blood, of family, and it had always been stacked against him. It had been there when he was an orphan, unwanted and forgotten, and it was there when he was a wizard with a last name like Riddle and only an orphanage to point back to for reference.

Riddle the mudblood, so talented, such a waste considering where he’s come from. It made it easier for those who were less capable, less talented, simply less than him to sneer and cast aside his accomplishments for nothing. Or worse, praise them as a miracle, isn’t it miraculous that the mudblood Riddle has so much magic? Surely it’s an aberration, that someone that low of birth can be that good at spells or be that intelligent.

Surely something, somewhere, went wrong so that this could happen.

And for years he worked to get them to see past that, to ignore his last name, and if not to move past it then to have grudging acceptance that Riddle was an exception. A mudblood Riddle might be but he became their prefect, the best student in their class, and they had all learned to shut up and take it. Because if they decided to beat it out of him then they knew where that led, they’d tried that their first year and he’d taught them well.

He’d force them to remember his name, to mark it as a great name to recognize and follow, and for years that had been his burning purpose in Hogwarts.

But now, just by reading simple sentence in a book, it all fell apart.

The mudblood Riddle was a myth, a lie, he’d never existed.

Slytherin, a direct descendent, and for a moment he’d been grinning like an idiot because there it was. There was his chance, his chance to get out and claim what was rightfully his, because he wasn’t only one of them now no he was better than them.

He was the purest of all those pureblooded bastards and they would never be able to dismiss him ever again.

But that wasn’t good enough, he realized as he sat there in the library, it wasn’t nearly good enough. Because Tom Riddle had too much history to them, they’d never let him rule over them, he could be a peer but…

He needed to transform, Tom Riddle had to stay Tom Riddle, but once he left Tom Riddle behind…

Tom Riddle was a chrysalis and he would emerge from that dead shell and they would look up at him in wonder.

He dropped the book, it fell onto the table, pages wrinkling, but he paid it no mind instead reaching for parchment and with a desperate fervor began writing names; transforming his own in the process, twisting it this way and that, because it must come from himself somehow. So that even if they didn’t know he would always remember that he had once been that mudblood Riddle and that he had transcended that existence.

Eventually, after a few minutes of frantic scribbling and thinking he found it, “I am Lord Voldemort.”

A step behind him, he whirled, and there was the last person he wanted to see.

He shouldn’t have done this in a library, he should have returned to the dormitory, or else gone to that room on the seventh floor. He wasn’t thinking, it’d all seemed to come together, and of course it meant nothing now but it would mean something later.

For now it was a list of anagrams, word play, but all the same it meant so much more to him.

He shifted his hand so the words were covered, Evans didn’t seem to pay any attention to that but was instead just staring at him, just looking at him.

Why was he in the library this late anyway? No, that was a stupid question Evans practically lived in the library. No, the real question was why he was lingering near Tom? Usually he went out of his way to avoid Tom as if he was a leper.

“Was there something you wanted, Evans?” He asked, but Evans said nothing, grimacing slightly at being addressed.

“Interesting book.” Evans finally said, his eyes resting on the stacks of books Tom had around him, and the one Tom had just been reading on inherited magical traits.

Could he know?

“Yes, quite, decent reading. I recommend it.” Tom said but of course Evans couldn’t know, how could he? When Tom himself hadn’t known until minutes before, and yet…

And yet inconceivably, beyond all reason, Tom felt that Evans did know. That maybe he had known what Tom Riddle was before Tom even had, that he’d been waiting for this moment to happen, and now that it had he was a little put out.

It was stupid of course, because Evans couldn’t know, he always prescribed Evans more meaning than he was worth and it was an obnoxious habit. He’d have to get around to breaking it, after all, no matter where Evans came from Lord Voldemort was so far above him that Evans was little more than an ant underfoot.

“Did you want something, Evans?” Tom repeated and again Evans only stared, now there was a bad habit, surely someone had told him it needed breaking.

“No, nothing.” Evans finally said, returning to his usual dull pattern of speech but he didn’t make to leave or let Tom return to his work either, he just stood there in the way of everything.

Of course Evans would somehow manage to ruin the most important revelation of Tom’s life, the creation of Lord Voldemort would always be tainted by this moment, and the very idea of it infuriated him beyond reason.

Evans, he decided then, would be the first to fall victim to the dark lord Voldemort when he emerged supreme.

“Then if you don’t mind, I’m rather busy.” Tom said motioning for him to leave, and here Evans did something he’d never seen him do before, he smiled.

It wasn’t much of a smile, only a slight flicker of the lips, a twinkle in the eyes, but never the less watching it happen Tom found himself dumbfounded.

He’d never seen Evans remotely happy.

“Of course, well then, night Riddle.” He gave a slight wave, shoved his hands casually into his pockets, and walked away from Tom’s table leaving Tom to stare after him and feel as if he had just missed some joke.

It was with an embarrassing amount of effort that Tom returned to where he’d left off with the new name, Voldemort.

* * *

Everything else was forgotten in that year. More than ever Tom Riddle was a part in a play, and he played it well enough, but everything was about Voldemort about what he could be.

Never again would he be sent to a bomb-riddled London, ignored when he desperately pleaded to stay beneath the school’s wards, never again would someone think to belittle or look down upon him, he would be respected, he would be revered, and they would worship the very blood in his veins.

Suddenly the indifference of his housemates, the too proud expression on Slughorn’s face as he overcame adversity that should never have existed, the idea of having constantly to walk uphill with the winds of oppression howling against him meant nothing at all. They no longer existed, because Voldemort was real, Voldemort would be real, and he would be victorious.

He played the Slug Club for all it was worth, he pursued immortality, found his answer in horcruxes and everything seemed laid out before him. Dark magic, a dark lord who would remake England in his image, this was the destiny he’d always been promised.

He began to search almost desperately for the Chamber of Secrets that was rumored to rest somewhere beneath the castle; impenetrable to all but those who spoke the noble tongue of snakes.

It took him months to find it, but he never gave up, he looked in all the most unlikely places and then one day he found it. A faucet out of place in the Dungeon bathrooms, a snake’s head where the others were all plain and undecorated, and there it was.

There it was, his legacy, everything he had dreamed for himself when he was a child in an orphanage with only a strange gift to call his own.

There it was, his future, everything he would force himself to become.

Lord Voldemort, I am Lord Voldemort, when he stood alone in the Chamber he couldn’t help but laugh in delight at the sound of it ringing in his head. It must have been the happiest he ever looked and indeed he’d never felt so happy, so light as if he was filled with air.

This was what he had been born for.

* * *

“The Chamber of Secrets has been opened, enemies of the heir beware.”

Tom eyed the words painted in rooster’s blood, appearing just as confused and disconcerted as the other students, but inward he was grinning. Perhaps not his most subtle or clever work but he’d seen the basilisk and somehow it’d all seemed too opportune.

He’d start here, he’d start, now with Hogwarts.

Because Voldemort didn’t have to wait, he didn’t have to wait until he was graduated, until he’d found a career. He could abandon Tom Riddle, useless as he’d ever been, now if he so chose.

And he did choose, he did choose that path, and so he would start here and now.

The discomfort in their eyes, the growing fear in their stomachs, the sense that these words were meant for them… These feelings all belonged to him, were a product of his actions, and he would drink them down like ambrosia.

His eyes swept over the audience, and each had a satisfactory expression, of course the real terror would come later when the petrifications or deaths began. For now they were uncomfortable, resting on the edge of fear and uncertainty, and for now that would be enough.

Then his eyes found that figure, the figure he always didn’t want to see, and his inward delight fell away. Evans, he looked disconcerted yes, but there was no fear there or if it was fear it wasn’t overwhelming he looked as if he was attempting to reach some decision to march forward into battle.

He looked as if he knew exactly what this meant, what these words really conveyed, and he would not bow to them. Evans would never fall to his feet, would never worship him, would never live in terror of his name.

Lord Voldemort could not touch Evans.

Tom turned from the scene, ushering students back to their dorms, ignoring the way Evans’ eyes found him and lingered far too long; that contempt still burning inside.

* * *

“Riddle, we need to talk.”

It was that very night, the night that they’d found the words he’d painted on the walls, and he could almost appreciate the fact that Evans at least didn’t waste time.

They were in the common room, Evans there because he never seemed to be able to sleep, and Tom there because he’d been too consumed by the events occurring to sleep now. He would sleep later, but now, now he needed to watch as it all began.

“Oh, well then, Evans, talk.” Riddle said motioning for Evans to continue.

“Somewhere private.” Evans said, as if this was a reasonable option.

“If you haven’t noticed, Evans, it’s past curfew and I am a prefect. This is as private as you’re going to get, I’m afraid.” Tom said and he left Evans with that, Evans frowning slightly but not deterred.

“You need to close Slytherin’s Chamber.”

Tom felt something crack, because he’d suspected even if he’d never admitted it, but Harry Evans knew. Somehow, inconceivably, Harry Evans had known as soon as he’d seen the words exactly what was going on.

And just by looking at him Tom knew that there would be no charming him out of this, and that even obliviating him might not do the trick, Evans knew and the knowledge was too deep to remove by artificial means. The knowledge was a part of him, as much of his expression as his lips, his eyes, and his hardened features.

Evans knew, as if he knew Tom better than Tom knew himself.

Tom swiftly cast notice-me-not as well as a silencing spell, every spell he could think of for privacy, because Evans had been right. This wasn’t a conversation he wanted anyone listening in on but that didn’t mean he’d take it anywhere else either.

Then his wand was pointed at Evans face.

“Who are you?” He almost whispered, for the first time not satisfied with the name Evans.

He stiffened at the question, his wand appeared in his hand having been hidden in his sleeve, but he made no move to point it at Tom, “You need to close it now.”

“How do you know this, who are you? How do you know me?” Tom asked, because no one knew this, no one had guessed this in all the years he had been in Hogwarts, how had Evans figured it out.

Who was Evans really?

“That’s not important it’s not… I guess it doesn’t really matter. But if you don’t close the Chamber then someone’s going to get killed!” And then he stopped, seeming to catch himself, and it was as if he decided for Tom that Tom didn’t really care if someone got killed.

He was shaking his head, looking at Tom with bewilderment, as if it was so stupid to even consider the possibility that Tom might care.

This conversation was alarming, it was too close, no one had ever talked to him like this before. This went beyond Mrs. Cole, beyond Dumbledore, beyond anyone who had ever thought they’d known him and hated him for it.

How did Evans do it? But he wouldn’t answer, Tom knew he wouldn’t, instead he would just sit there and judge as if he had some right to.

There was something so infuriating in that, more than Billy Stubbs with his goddamn rabbit, Dumbledore with his wardrobe even, there was something patronizing that it wiped away all the panic and left only the rage.

Just who did Evans think he was, anyway?

“Do you know why I opened the Chamber, Evans?”

Tom lowered his wand, and in turn Harry Evans lowered his, slowly and uncertainly as if ready to whip it back up at a moment’s notice.

Evans didn’t answer, just glared, like Tom had done it for no reason at all. It struck Tom then, he thought Tom was off his head, he thought he was crazy, and wasn’t that the pot calling the kettle black? He thought that Tom did it for fun or maybe because he was bored it didn’t even seem to occur to him that it had been more than necessary.

“In my third year the Nazis started bombing London, of course you may remember this _Evans_ but it bears reminding all the same. They started in the fall and they kept going on through the spring, and eventually the time came where I’d have to return to the orphanage, the orphanage that might not even still be standing.”

Evans looked disconcerted, here was his uncertainty, as if in a thousand years he hadn’t seen this particular conversation coming. Like Tom had done something entirely unexpected; good.

“I begged, _begged_ , Dippet to let me stay at Hogwarts. I would work in the kitchens, I would work in town, just as long as I didn’t have to go back. And do you know he smiled at me? With the shallowest sympathy you can possibly imagine, he kindly told me that there were no exceptions to be made. And I realized then, staring across at him, that he would let me die before he relaxed those exceptions.” Tom sneered and Evans only blankly stared back at him, his eyes widening slightly, but he did not step down or step back.

“Is it so terrible, so awful Evans, that I attempt to make them understand what it means to live in a city where death falls at random from the sky?”

For a moment Evans seemed to take in the words, to allow a paradigm shift, but then a steel curtain fell over his eyes, “Bullshit.”

Bullshit, well, perhaps. It was hadn’t been on the forefront of Tom’s mind when he’d released the basilisk. And the instructions he’d given to the creature were to destroy the mudbloods, no use destroying the future aristocracy, his future yes-men and sycophants.

Still, it wouldn’t be a lie to say that Dippet’s words still burned in his subconscious. Festering there with his first meeting with Dumbledore and all the rest of the injustices dealt to him.

So Tom smiled thinly at Evans and shrugged lightly, “Believe what you choose to believe, Evans. But don’t think for a moment that you understand me simply because you have so much conviction.”

Tom’s words appeared to have no effect because just as harshly Evans disregarded them and moved onto his next argument, “They’ll shut down the school.”

“No they won’t, enemies of the heir Evans, that means mudbloods.” Tom leaned in close, Evans stiffening again his wand arm twitching , “I’ll tell you a dirty little secret, no one gives a shit about mudbloods.”

“You’re wrong.” He insisted, gritting his teeth, and there was the passion in his eyes. Tom couldn’t help but smile.

“Am I, Evans?” Evans wasn’t stupid, he knew Tom wasn’t wrong about this. If it was Malfoy then the school might shut down, but Evans or Moaning Myrtle, well they might be a little put out and there might be a small call to action but nothing as drastic as closing the school.

“Yes, you are.”

And then they stood there, each eyeing the other, waiting for the other to make the first move. Evans looked ready to duel right there and then, in the Slytherin common room, where only a few doors away their peers slept soundly without any idea of what had transpired.

He was alarmed, yes, that Evans knew so much but there were other feelings to. He found he was excited, anticipating, perhaps a little nervous but not out of fear but out of a need to see this out correctly.

There wasn’t a cold need to grind Evans out beneath his heel for daring to question him, no, some part of Tom wanted Evans to confront him. Had been waiting for Evans to confront him, because somehow Voldemort couldn’t be complete without this moment, what was the great lord without at least one lonely unheeded cry in opposition.

Evans would be his Cassandra, shouting warnings of the sacking of Troy, as the world around him burned.

“Well, if that’s all, I’ll be going upstairs.”  Tom dismissed the spells with a wave of his wand leaving Evans standing there stiffly looking as if he was going to catch fire with the force of his anger and hatred.

“I’ll stop you, Riddle.”

Tom stopped before he could return to his room, turned to find Evans still looking at him with that green fire in his eyes, his hands shaking but his gaze steady.

“Will you?” Tom asked.

“Yes, I’ll stop you.”

“Tell you what, Evans, I don’t know that much about you but you seem to know me far too well. I’ll let you be for now, for the year, and you reconsider that terrible decision you’ve just made. We’ve come to an agreement of sorts, over the year, ignore me and I’ll ignore you, I don’t see why it has to end now.”

He didn’t leave Evans much time to think about it, he stepped out before the boy could say anything else, and it wasn’t until he was in his own room that the giddiness and surreal feeling of that conversation faded and that panic he’d first felt returned.

Who was Evans?

* * *

There were several petrifications and with each one Tom would catch Evans’ eye and metaphorically tip his hat to the transfer student.

He didn’t know why he was doing this, why he was toying with Evans like this, but something inside him drove him to do it. There was something in him that needed to do this, more than he needed to play the concerned prefect, more than anything else he needed to goad Evans.

He wanted Evans unnerved, on edge, continuously aware of the danger and peril they all faced but helpless to stop it. He wanted to watch Evans twitch, squirm, and try beyond all reasonable effort to stop things before they went too far.

(He wanted Evans as uncomfortable and afraid as he was, as he pretended he wasn’t, he wanted Evans laid bare before him until Tom could divine his inner workings just as easily as Evans could his. It wasn’t fair, after all, that Evans was playing the game with all the cards.)

Tom watched as he desperately tried to get in contact with Dumbledore and each time was brushed away with the words that if he had concerns he should speak directly with the headmaster. He watched as Evans placed mirrors onto every surface imaginable, and watched Evans devastation as the headmaster broke his sticking charms and removed them from the walls as if it was a casual prank. He watched as Evans seemed to realize that no one would take his word against Tom, that it would cast him in the role of the heir, after all he had only arrived that year out of nowhere. If anyone would open the Chamber, seek to destroy the school, it would be Evans who had no ties to the place.

And still Tom watched and waited.

Tom didn’t know what he was waiting for, what he thought Evans could do about it, but he was waiting for something. Waiting for someone to die, waiting for Evans to finally act and reveal himself for what he really was, for some grand finale…

It didn’t last very long before things were torn from Tom’s hands.

He’d thought he was in control, that everything was in the palm of his hands, because he was the heir and more he was Lord Voldemort.

He hadn’t realized how desperate he was.

There was a night when it was too quiet, when he couldn’t hear the basilisk whispering in the pipes, and more when he didn’t see Evans in the dormitory or in the common room. Somehow he’d known, as he’d stood in the too silent common room, that everything was falling apart.

Before he could even comprehend what was happening, where he thought he was going, he was casting a disillusionment spell on himself and racing towards the Chamber one final time.

* * *

The basilisk was dead, lying across the floor of the chamber, its eyes staring blindly forward staring at everything and nothing and a small lake of blood extending beneath it.

Tom felt his breath, his heart, stop at the sight of it. And he could only stand there, walk silently forward, and take in the sight of it; this great leviathan, this wondrous being, a reflection of Tom himself and his entire legacy.

Dead.

His eyes turned unwillingly to the lone figure standing, Evans, covered in blood, only his wand in his hand.

(Some kind of severing charm, he thought to himself dully, of course it’d have to be more powerful to cut through the basilisk’s scales. Inefficient, a rooster would have been better, of course Tom had killed all the roosters but…)

He looked like a figure from a story, a story Tom had never read, about a knight who was more grim than he was a charming. A knight who had already played this role before and had no maidens saved to show for it.

And then there was nothing but rage and grief and he was screaming, there were no words, only horrified pained screaming as he clutched his head and fell to his knees. And Evans just stood there, stood there and watched, contempt and perhaps even pity in his expression.

Evans waited until he’d stopped, until Tom’s voice was too hoarse to go on, and he was kneeling over taking rattling breaths, “You will never win, Tom.”

Tom turned to look at him, and how was it that he seemed so tall, so dark, when Tom knew he was shorter than almost every boy in their year.

Tom’s gritted his teeth again and he tried to pull himself together, to find something worth saying, but there was nothing and nothing. There was only death and a basilisk; this was all that he had amounted to.

To his horror there were tears gathering at the edge of his vision, “I only wanted…”

He started but Evans cut him off, “I know what you wanted.”

But how could he when Tom had no idea himself, where had he thought this was going if not here, what he had he imagined this would lead too? He started laughing then, because it was suddenly just as funny as it was terrible, horrifying, and painful.

Here Evans was disconcerted, finally thrown off balance, and it just made Tom laugh harder. Because this was what everything amounted to, this really was his legacy, he had been fooling himself in that library.

He had thought he could escape Tom Riddle, but there was no escaping him, he’d been him for too many years to cast him aside now. He was chained to himself, to his past, and he could never escape from it no matter how many grand names he devised for himself.

And it was absurdly funny.

He stood slowly, shaking, and stared Evans directly in the face, “You should have come sooner, you know, I was getting so very bored. So, then, Evans, what happens next?”

Evans hand gripped his wand tighter, his knuckles turning white, and Tom felt himself laughing again because he’d seen that one coming. Always reaching for the wand, the knife, Harry Evans was always fighting or looking for a reason to fight.

“You’re the one who holds are the cards, so what happens next?” He asked again, whipping out his own wand, the fury just underneath the desperate absurdity.

“I won’t let you become Voldemort. I don’t care what happens to me, or what happens to the bloody timeline, you’re finished.”

Tom held out his arms, truly baffled and beyond caring that somehow Evans had known even that, and cried, “But don’t you see, Evans, there is no Voldemort.”

Evans didn’t seem convinced, and perhaps he had no reason to be, so Tom sighed and brought his wand forward. He’d always wanted to duel Evans, he’d never gotten the chance, he’d always wanted to prove that he really was better.

Hadn’t he been waiting for this, in the common room when Evans had first confronted him, hadn’t he been looking forward to this moment?

“Is this to the death, then?” Tom asked and Evans didn’t bother to nod but it was in his eyes; there was no room for hesitation within them.

“They’ll send you to Azkaban.” Tom said and Evans shrugged, as if this was inconsequential, as if it didn’t matter. As if he was perfectly willing to die, to have his soul sucked out by demons, just so that Tom died with him.

Who knew that Evans had secretly been a Gryffindor the whole time? No wonder Tom had always disliked him.

“Well then,” Tom said with a sense of finality, “I suppose I have no choice.”

And with that he struck, not bothering to hold himself to light spells, no Evans would suffer right there along with him. Evans was good though, not merely casting shields but actively dodging, a skill that most wizards didn’t have. Evans had experience, wherever he had come from, not just in dueling but in actual real fights with dark spells and Tom felt a wild grin grow on his face as he got into the rhythm.

It was almost as if they were dancing, or fencing, their footwork just as intricate as their spells so that they were crossing the chamber and using the dead basilisk as a shield. And it went on, and on, so that what should have lasted a minute was now lasting fifteen.

How long would they go on for? Tom couldn’t help but wonder, would they be here all night, or longer even? Perhaps this was what it felt like to play quidditch, never knowing when it was going to end, but playing on regardless in the hope that it would end in your favor.

Evans didn’t use dark spells, but he was creative with what he had, and Tom had a few narrow misses in the middle. He could see the sweat on Evans’ brow though, the way his glasses were fogging, Evans would lose this fight and be claimed as a victim for the basilisk.

There was his mudblood victim.

There was something in that thought though, in the way his eyes caught the basilisk in that moment, that caused him to pause slightly.

It had no meaning; Voldemort had never existed in the first place.

“Expelliarmus!”

Tom felt his wand fly out of his hand, clatter to the floor somewhere behind him, and there he was beneath Evans’ wandpoint staring forlornly at the wasteland that was his existence.

Why had he done this?

Why had he really opened the Chamber?

He had been so desperate, had needed so badly to see that it wasn’t a delusion of grandeur, that it was possible. And now he knew, it was an illusion, a castle of sand he’d built for himself and it had all fallen apart far too easily.

He fell to his knees, he would die here, without even having made a horcrux to preserve himself.

This was the end.

He listened to Evans echoing footsteps, not willing to look at him, only staring forward.

Evans stopped when the tip of his wand was resting between Tom’s shoulder blades, pressing too tightly against his clothing, and there it rested.

“Just do it.” Tom said, absently, staring forward.

Get it over with.

It never came. Instead the wand dropped from his back, and he turned to see Evans staring down at him with an indecipherable expression, and he said, “Come on, Tom, we should get going.”

And he held out his hand to Tom, covered in dirt, grime, and blood and somehow Tom found himself taking it and slowly but surely being lead out into the moonlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that escalated quickly.
> 
> Thanks for reading, comments, kudos, and bookmarks are much appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

“ _Does the prophet see the future or does he see a line of weakness, a fault or cleavage that he may shatter with words or decisions as a diamond-cutter shatters his gem with a blow of a knife?_ ”

\- Dune, Frank Herbert

* * *

Things changed yet remained the same after that incident with the basilisk.

Tom was lost, or rather, he felt lost.

He wandered the same halls that he had always known, sat in the same classes, and yet it was as if he had lost something vital in the Chamber of Secrets; something intrinsic and unnamable yet more necessary for that.

In the meantime the petrifications abruptly ended and to the faculty it seemed the scare was over, they still searched for the perpetrator but eventually they let it subside, as if it was a mystery that would never be solved.

As if it had never really mattered in the first place.

See what Lord Voldemort really amounted to, Tom?

Evans was around too often, and at first it was smothering, because Evans had always managed to be too close in his silent and aloof manner. He knew too much, saw too much, and he was always there standing over Tom’s shoulder ready to kill him and yet faltering.

Every night, when he fell asleep, he was back in that chamber with Evans standing behind his back and there was only their combined breath and the terror that this was it; this was all that he was. This single, silent, panicked moment where his heartbeat stuttered in his chest.

In the dreams Evans never failed to kill him.

It took him a week to ask, it was in the Common Room, they’d both been up far too late into the night staring silently into the flames. This had happened several times since the incident, Evans actions had failed to cure his insomnia but had passed the condition onto Tom instead, because whenever Tom closed his eyes he was dying.

They never said anything in these moments, never looked at each other, instead stared ahead into the fireplace. Sometimes Tom found himself wondering if Evans was some sort of physical phantom, if that was his secret, if he was an apparition whose sole purpose was to remain in the shadows and haunt with too green eyes.

Because how could anything human cause him such terror and grief?              

Regardless they were there together once again, and Tom found the words were easier to say than he had ever expected, “Why didn’t you kill me?”

Evans looked over at him, his eyebrows raised, his expression one of confusion and Tom asked again.

“You were going to, but you didn’t, why didn’t you just kill me?" 

If Evans said that he didn’t know, that he’d pitied Tom, that he just couldn’t do it then Tom was going to scream and finish what they’d started that night and every night since in his nightmares. He was shaking, there was so little control, but he’d lost everything and he couldn’t afford to lose it again.

For a few moments Evans just stared at him, incredulous, and then that familiar expression of disregard returned.

(It was almost sad that Tom found that comforting because at least it was something he knew, something he’d come to expect from Evans.)

“I tried to hate you, when I first got here, and I do hate you. I will always hate you, because you’re a right monster, but you could have been so much more if you just tried.” How was it that contempt sat so well in those green eyes? More than happiness, grief, it was contempt and righteous anger that suited them so well.

“You’re brilliant, Riddle. You really are a bloody genius… And I didn’t realize that you weren’t Voldemort yet, that Malfoy and the Blacks and everyone else would hate you just as much as they hated Hermione. You’re still evil but… You’re not Voldemort yet.”

“I could have been.” He said bitterly, because he’d almost tasted it, worthless glory as it was he’d almost had it with that basilisk.

Evans frowned, his eyes flashing, and for a moment it looked as if he might curse him for saying that; for implying that Voldemort was a suitable road to travel on. Tom was too exhausted, too worn, to think on this and try to see why Evans held such strong feelings. They were there, they were inexplicable, and they were overwhelming. Perhaps one day they’d even kill him, although they’d tried and failed before.

After a moment of silence he appeared to think better of it though and shook his head, “I think even you know that it’d be a bloody waste. I don’t like you Riddle, and if I had to I would kill you, but I’m going to believe that you can be better than you are now. I have to believe that things don’t need to be the same… And I don’t want to be like you.” The last words were said with just as much force and anger as the rest and yet Tom couldn’t help but think that they sounded more contrived than the rest of it, as if Evans desperately didn’t want to be like Tom Riddle, the Tom Riddle he’d made up in his head but wasn’t sure if he was or not.  As if he was truly afraid to find out.

Evans seemed to consider this sufficient reasoning, because although he sat stiffly he didn’t say anything more, and waited for Tom to say something in response. But there was nothing to say, because in his own way Evans had given Tom what he needed just now, a reason that wasn’t based on pity.

He had never met anyone as brutally and terribly honest as Evans.

It was in that moment that he realized, to his surprise, that he didn’t hate Evans. He didn’t hate him for looking too closely and seeing what no one else had bothered to search for, he didn’t hate him for having such unshakable beliefs, and he didn’t hate him for that night in the chamber. Somehow Evans was removed from all of this, as if standing a little to the side of it, and so Tom didn’t hate him in the way he had hated Mrs. Cole, Dumbledore, and so many others. He didn’t know what he felt, a sort of forced hollowness, as if he had been carved out from the inside but at the same time…

At the same time perhaps there was something resembling kinship.

This was the closest that anyone had stepped to his soul and although Evans found it lacking he had not ground it out beneath his heel. Evans had seen potential, beyond all the things he found distasteful, he had found something that was worth keeping alive.

(That night in his nightmare, when Evans’ wand rested between his shoulder blades, the transfer student hesitated to deliver the killing words.)

* * *

Evans was far more multifaceted than Tom had ever given him credit for. In some ways he was always sharp, that young man down in the chambers, but in other ways he was little more than a student.

The months went on and somehow, impossibly, they gravitated towards each other.

There was no real explanation. Evans, as he reminded Tom every so often, was not fond of him. Hate, he’d say, he hated Tom. He hated Tom’s charm, his genius, his arrogance, almost every aspect of his personality Evans would list off and hate with a passion.

Being hated, it was probably similar to being loved, Tom didn’t really know. It was hard to imagine something stronger than that single minded passion, that focus, the way his eyes burned you even as they looked at you.

Hate was a passion; that was what Evans had taught him.

Still in spite of his hate they somehow put the Slytherin’s Chamber behind them. It lingered in the shadows of their conversations, but it did not obstruct them and soon they were sitting together in their classes and occasionally Evans would talk.

He was quite good at Defense, not so much the theory, but the actual physical casting and defending. He’d confessed at one point to Tom that he’d had a bit of a spotty education when it came to the subject, and that he’d only had one and a half good professors in it, (the half was said grudgingly along with mutterings of murderers and cultists) but in spite of that he flourished. Perhaps because he took it seriously, Evans, more than any other student saw the practical need for Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Most students would never use these spells, would never come face to face with dark wizards, and would spend their lives in an office. They saw it as a class, useful, and a bit more interesting than some of the more theory based classes but ultimately unimportant. Evans full-heartedly believed in defending against the dark arts.

“Why do you hate it so much?” Tom asked at one point, they’d been in the library, Evans flipping through his odd books again. He seemed distracted though, forlorn, looking as if he was on the verge of abandoning the subject altogether. Not that he’d ever told Tom precisely what he was looking for.

Tom had asked once and Evans had refused to answer but instead had become panicked and looked on the verge of causing Tom bodily harm if he inquired further. It had been a rather large hint to leave it alone.

“What?” Evans asked, looking up at him in confusion, tearing his mind from the pages.

“Dark magic.” Tom clarified and with only the words a shadow fell across Evans face.

He looked so much older than fifteen in those moments, an adult trapped in a small child’s body, and it would always take too long for anyone’s comfort for his face to return to something resembling a student’s.

“It’s evil.”

“It’s energy.” Tom countered, “It is neither good nor evil; magic only has the morality prescribed to it by the caster.”

Evans scoffed at that, looking as if Tom had made some unintentional joke, “Of course you’d say that… That’s just the excuse that evil people give to justify their actions. There is good and there is evil.”

Tom considered that for a moment, he looked so convinced, so sure in his beliefs. He’d come to like that about Evans, that he was so sure in himself and more that he was so noble, they joked about it Slytherin but most Gryffindors didn’t actually have many of the man’s virtues. True nobility, honor, bravery were hard to come by and yet somehow Evans had them nonetheless. When you listened to Evans, or watched him, you almost couldn’t help but believe in these things as well.

However, Tom knew a bit more about the subject than Harry Evans. Tom had read many of the books they didn’t hand out in History of Magic, he knew his dark arts, and more he knew the unforgivable.

Crucio was invented by a madman and a sadist who’d experimented to find the human limit of enduring pain and to push them past it. Imperius by a dark lord who’d sought more manageable servants and a way to subdue enemies without having to lift a finger. Avada Kedavera had a different story though.

Avada Kedavera was not created by a mad man, a dark lord, but instead by young academic who’d been horrified by the world he lived in. He lived in a time of warring states, centuries ago, when Europe’s borders were not so complete and the muggle world pressed in close.

The corpses of wizards littered the streets, their bodies hacked in two, strewn apart, and the fields were painted red with their blood. There was no easy way to kill a wizard, no fast, painless, efficient way to do what they felt needed to be done. More it was tradition that prisoners of war in England be taken to an island in the sea and chained to the rock so that dementors might devour their soul.

The academic had created a spell that he believed would end the horror of war if not the death.

It required will, you had to want to kill your enemy above all else, it required many syllables, so you had to say it without stuttering, but when fired it was fast and when it hit it never failed to kill. It was fast, it was painless, and to the wizarding population it was an abomination.

The spell had no purpose other than to kill, all other spells used in battle, they had other functions and while inefficient at killing did the trick.

To use this killing curse a man must admit to himself that he is a murderer and that he had no other intention than death.

And so it became unforgivable, the same as a spell to cause insanity through pain or to turn a person into a living doll.

Strange that obliviate, a spell used to erase everything a person is or was, had never made that list. Because surely that, more than even the killing curse, deserved to be counted among the unforgivable.

But of course it was too convenient.

He had a feeling this was a story that Evans didn’t want to hear and had never heard before, sitting there, Tom had found he was content with Evans keeping his illusions. At least one of them had faith in the world.

* * *

Evans wasn’t awful at Potions but he wasn’t very good at it either.

Tom had learned early on, when they’d begun partnering together, that Evans could go and fetch the ingredients and do what Tom told him to but he was not allowed to directly interfere with the potion and more Evans knew this was for the best as well.

On his own Evans’ potions would pass, barely, and he always would carefully watch his creations as if to make sure they didn’t go too far downhill.

“Considering how good you are at Defense I’d assumed you’d be slightly above mediocre in Potions.” Tom commented at one point as they were studying for an exam in the library, he’d finished studying quite a while ago but he liked sticking around and watching Evans’ squirm. There was something about seeing his mounting frustration which was just so surreal and also satisfying.

Evans may have almost managed to kill him and had somehow slain a basilisk but Tom was much better at school than he would ever be.

“Yeah, well, I had a bloody awful teacher who hated my guts.” Evans said, his quill tapping against his notes making small dents in the parchment.

“You hate me and we get along just fine.” Tom pointed out to which Evans glared for a moment and then actually seemed to think on the words.

“Bloody hell, you’re right… Well, I mean, I can’t believe I’m saying this but he was way worse than you.” Evans appeared shocked by his own words, as if he really couldn’t believe he was saying this, as if there was nothing more abominable and wretched than Tom. And yet somehow, Tom couldn’t help but feel slightly flattered, because this was the closest thing to a compliment he’d ever gotten from Evans.

“Oh he must have been quite terrible then.” Tom said causing Evans to flush slightly with rage and embarrassment.

Flustered, Tom wondered if he’d ever seen Evans flustered, he didn’t think so. Evans was always so closed off that it was hard to tell what he was thinking beyond determination and contempt. It was a bit odd to see such normal emotions on his face.

“Shut up, Riddle!” He spat out, but it lacked any real venom.

“Well, Slughorn plays favorites but he doesn’t single anyone out as a bad seed either. That’s more Dumbledore’s style, so you should be fine. Ignored, but fine.” Tom said with a shrug, which was true enough, in Slughorn’s world you either got an invitation to the Slug Club or you didn’t. Tom had never seen him hold a vendetta; he was too busy brown nosing future heirs to bother with it.

“Hey, Dumbledore’s a great wizard!” Evans said, Tom looked up, blinking slightly unaware that he’d touched a sore topic.

Now that he thought about it Evans was always trying to talk to Dumbledore but it had always looked like he’d never gotten to say what he wanted to. Tom would always pass him waiting outside Dumbledore’s office for a chance to chat and somehow Dumbledore always blew him off. Dumbledore didn’t have the same distrust for him as he did Tom but never the less he was coldly professional with Evans.

So where had the need to defend him come from?

“I never said he wasn’t a great wizard.” Tom said, and he was, Dumbledore was a very learned academic and a master of Transfiguration. Tom had never belittled his talents even if he didn’t like the man.

Evans blinked, confused, looking as if he’d wanted Tom to sneer and spit about how much he hated Dumbledore.

“He’s a petty and ridiculous man but he does have his talents, I won’t disregard that simply because I dislike him.” Tom explained with a shrug, Dumbledore seemed unimportant now, now that Voldemort was no longer feasible.

Evans frowned slightly and then admitted almost grudgingly, “I’ve been trying to talk to him, and it’s like he’s not even willing to listen. He needs to though, it’s bloody important.”

Personal then. Tom couldn’t help but think that it was about Evans’ mysterious secrets, the things he’d never told Tom but had only allowed Tom to guess.

“Dumbledore rarely gets close with students. He picks his favorites early and doesn’t deviate from them; it must be a Gryffindor trait.” Tom said with a shrug and he could see Evans disbelieving expression but it was true.

Dumbledore had a bad habit of dismissing things that were terribly important because he felt morally superior or else unaffected by them. He had hardly changed since the time he had introduced Tom to the wizarding world five years ago.  

“But it’s really important.” Evans insisted his fist pounding on the table if that might accentuate his point.

“He doesn’t care.”

It didn’t seem as if Evans believed him or rather Evans was determined to prove him wrong because soon in every ounce of Evans’ free time he was standing outside of Dumbledore’s office or else trying to find him and speak to him alone. It was like he was some sort of demented stalker, there were rumors flooding the school of Evans’ being in love with the man, but never the less Evans didn’t falter.

For weeks he persisted until finally it was almost the end of the year and they would all be headed home for the summer.

It was their last day of Transfiguration, and Dumbledore had just finished handing back their last graded assignment. He smiled at Minerva McGonagall, his favorite student, and was now waiting for them all to shuffle out.

The man seemed tired, as if the war had drained something out of him, but never the less he was still standing there oh so proud and noble in the front of the class. Like he was so much better than the rest of them; Tom always wondered how he would have liked living in an orphanage if he’d ever gotten a chance.

Evans waited until it was just him and Tom in the room. For a moment he just stood there, almost nervously, awkwardly, his mouth half open as if searching for the perfect words. Finally he said something very odd, “Sometimes you have to choose what’s right, instead of what’s easy.”

Dumbledore froze, stiffened, and looked at Evans as if seeing him for the first time. Evans didn’t repeat himself though, just stared forward, his eyes blazing and his chin jutting out slightly. And then he turned, slowly, and walked out of the classroom leaving Tom to catch up with him.

“What was that supposed to mean?” Tom asked.

“He knows that he needs to talk with me, and maybe he’s too busy and important with other things, but he knows and now when we come back in the fall he’ll listen to what I have to say.” Evans said, grinning wildly, as if he’d just won some great battle.

“I applaud your subtly, Evans, but I think that might have been too subtle.” Tom pointed out, “You should have just told him what you wanted.”

“I tried that, didn’t work, tried something new.” Evans said shortly, “Besides at worst he’ll just ignore it, right? And then I’ll try again."

“Are you a bloody Hufflepuff?” Tom asked, because there was tenacity and then there was pointless tenacity and sometimes he thought that Evans just had no idea when to give up and move on.

“Hey, I told you, it’s really important!” Evans said looking mildly offended.

Tom didn’t doubt that, but why Dumbledore, why only Dumbledore? Why not Tom? Why not Tom who had seen and was more than willing to listen? Why was it that he felt so cold at the idea of Evans dismissing him without a thought?

Important, he wondered how long Evans’ tenacity would last when Dumbledore failed to meet his request in the next year. For surely Dumbledore, having made up his mind before he even heard Evans words, would not falter in the coming year.

* * *

The train rolled out of Hogsmede, back to the hell that was London, and Tom just felt empty at the prospect.

Of course, he could still leave that place come graduation, losing Voldemort hadn’t taken all of his hope for the future from him…

Yet the wizarding war that had been only rumors earlier in the year was coming to fruition. The German ministry had been taken over by a dark lord and the mudbloods were being purged, at least, that was what the whispers were. It was hard to tell what was true and what was not only that in the mainland of Europe things were spiraling out of control and that it might not be best for Tom Riddle to be a supposed mudblood. Of course, this was in Germany, nowhere near England yet, so perhaps it would sort itself out.

Across from him Evans sighed, distracting Tom from his thoughts, he also looked dejected at the prospect of returning to London.

“I don’t suppose you’d tell me where you live if I asked?” Tom asked, causing Evans eyes to flicker to his.

“I… I don’t live anywhere right now…” He trailed off uncertainly caught by his own thoughts.

Tom blinked, and wondered if this explained anything, but it just added to the mysteries. “Don’t tell me you’re an orphan.”

“Well, yeah, I guess I am.” Evans said shrugging, as if he’d never equated being an orphan with being homeless before.

Evans, he found himself staring at the transfer student again. It was hard to see him as a student, even with the glasses, the second hand robes, the chronic bed head. Never the less there were times when he seemed just as young and lost as the rest of them.

“I’m an orphan.” He said and Evans blinked, as if not sure what to make of this, “I live at an orphanage. I’m sure Mrs. Cole wouldn’t appreciate a new tenant, but she wouldn’t throw you out either.”

“I…” Harry looked as if he didn’t know what to say, good, he shouldn’t.

Tom was being far too generous, if offering someone a place at that terrible orphanage could be considered generous.

“This is where you thank me.” Tom said after the silence had persisted too long.

“Thank you…” Evans said, and there was nothing in his eyes, not contempt just a sort of dazed look as if he couldn’t quite believe what was happening. But it was enough.

It was enough.

And they both turned to look out the window as the Scottish countryside rolled by.


	4. Chapter 4

_“Yet, it is possible to see peril in finding the ultimate perfection. It is clear that the ultimate pattern contains its own fixity. In such perfection, all things move toward death_ ”

\- Dune, Frank Herbert

* * *

There was something so inherently wrong about seeing Evans walking around Wool’s Orphanage that Tom couldn’t express it in words. He didn’t know what he’d been thinking on the train, certainly it hadn’t been sympathy, but something had moved him to offer Evans a place to stay and only now did he look back and wonder what he’d been thinking.

It was hard enough knowing Evans lived in the same dormitory as him, to wake up with him in the same room (because of course there was only one open bed in the orphanage), well that feeling of being hunted had never entirely left.

It was more than that though. Tom had more or less overcome his primal fear in the months since the incident in the chamber, he was alive and Evans wasn’t going to kill him and so that was the end of it. The sight of Evans in a muggle hell hole still bothered him though.

In the end he decided that Evans seemed too comfortable with his surroundings. Well, that wasn’t to say he was comfortable, he still twitched around Tom (as if Tom had been the one to almost kill him), and suffered from insomnia, but he didn’t question his surroundings as much as Tom would have expected. He was fine with the worn second hand clothing, the overused furniture, the terrible food; as if this was not only something he had expected but something he was accustomed to.

Tom didn’t like the idea that Harry Evans had come from just as dismal, muggle, and pathetic a background as he himself had.

Evans was supposed to be removed from such banal things as past or personal history, Evans wasn’t allowed to be a person, and yet here he was impoverished and unexpectedly at ease with that fact.

The summer months trickled past terribly slowly.

* * *

When they received their OWL scores and registration for NEWT courses Evans had a mild existential crisis.

Tom had decided, even before receiving his scores, that he would take anything that wasn’t useless which would leave him taking all the NEWT versions of his OWL courses. Voldemort hadn’t necessitated his courses and neither would any other path he chose to take, whatever path he chose to take... Sometimes he found himself jokingly thinking that he should take Slughorn up on his brown nosing and see if he really couldn’t somehow become minister by the age of thirty, just to rub everyone’s nose in it.

Or perhaps he’d become an unspeakable, a runebreaker, something, anything just so long as it wasn’t an illusion.

So Tom had hardly glanced at his scores, all Os, when he received them but had instead found himself staring at the dumbfounded Evans.

Evans was clutching his letter, his eyes glazed behind his glasses, a stunned look on his face as if he had just been hit by a violent spell. Tom walked behind him, Evans didn’t even bother to move the letter out of sight, and Tom read the scores.

“Not bad,” Tom commented, and they weren’t, they reflected Evans strengths and weaknesses at the very least. Decent in Transfiguration and Charms, superb in Defense, average in Potions, and appallingly terrible in Divination and History of Magic. Had Tom received those scores he would have been horrified but Evans was much less of an academic than he was.

Evans didn’t respond though, just kept staring at the letter, as if waiting for it to transform into something else.

“Expecting higher?” Tom asked again with no reaction from Evans, as if he hadn’t heard, “Lower?”

“…They sent me my OWL scores.” Evans said slowly, as if someone had just said the phrase to him and he hadn’t quite believed them but was now attempting to.

“Yes, the ministry does that.” Tom said equally slowly with raised eyebrows wondering if Evans was intentionally being an idiot or if something else was going on.

“No, I… I know they do that, I’m not stupid!” He said flushing, fixing his glasses, but then his face paled again as he stared down at the letter, “But I… I just didn’t think I’d be here this long.”

The letter fell out of his fingers, onto the floor, and that was when Tom started to realize that this was serious. That there was something going on, always that same something about Evans, that he didn’t understand and hadn’t grasped yet. He only had the pieces, the odd instances, and he’d kept track of them but he’d tried and failed to place them together.

He didn’t want to place them together. Tom had learned that knowing things, realizing truths, was a painful process and sometimes even lethal. Voldemort, the chamber, Evans himself, had taught him that.

Every time Evans hinted, revealed his hand, Tom couldn’t help but shudder.

“I… What if I never get back? What if I’m stuck here forever? I’ll… I’ll graduate Hogwarts, Merlin, I’ll have to get a job. I don’t even know what I want to do with my life, I always just thought about making it through the year alive…” Evans trailed off, his eyes widening and hands shaking slightly, on the verge of some mental collapse that Tom desperately did not want to witness.

“Evans.” He said calmly, slowly, with more patience and detachment than he truly felt.

Evans didn’t look up or respond, Tom repeated himself, “Evans.”

“Just pick your classes, that’s all you have to do.” Tom said and Evans nodded hesitantly, realizing that this was a step by step process, that if you looked into the abyss that was life you would surely go mad, “Is there any career in particular you’d look into?”

Evans shrugged, “I don’t know, an auror I guess…”

“Then take the NEWT classes you’ll need to be an auror. That’s all you have to do, Evans.”

“Right, right…” Evans said, his body relaxing as the decision sunk in, he picked his letter up off the floor and folded it into a small square. He didn’t thank Tom, or even acknowledge that he’d been given advice, but neither of them wanted to hear that. Tom needed Evans to play the role of the shadow, the grim knight in dark places, he never wanted to see Evans the uncertain and fragile student.

He didn’t want to know who or what Evans really was.

* * *

They weren’t friends by the end of the summer just as they hadn’t been by the end of the school year.

Tom had never had friends, reflecting on himself he wasn’t sure he was capable of friendship. Friendship required an honesty and transparency that he wasn’t willing to give, more it required interest in the other person which he just wasn’t capable of giving, the majority of people (particularly people his own age) were hopelessly dull and grotesque. Students at Hogwarts, magical people, were slightly better than the muggles but they were all caricatures of a higher ideal degraded by their own shallowness and greed.

Tom had never really wanted friends and after meeting Evans he still found that he didn’t want friends.

He didn’t know what he and Evans really were.

They knew each other too well to be acquaintances, they’d learned to recognize and maneuver around the other’s ticks, and they understood the words they each left unspoken in regards to the orphanage and life as an orphan in general. They were comfortable around each other, and there were times when they were almost amiable, but that did not make them friends.

Just close.

At the beginning of the school year they rode in a compartment by themselves, Evans staring out the window and Tom reading the latest edition of the Prophet before leaving for his prefects meeting.

One of Evans better qualities was that he didn’t have the incessant need to chatter, sometimes he filled silences but not often, he’d rather stew in wordless emotions then say nothing of worth and this suited Tom immensely. Tom knew far too many people, Slughorn was a prime example, of people who would never shut up because they hated the idea of quiet.

“Violence in France…” Tom muttered to himself, reading the small article in the paper, placed in the middle amid advertisements and personal interest stories. Unsubstantiated rumors again, on the border with Germany, and in France which was on the mainland rather than in England but…

Tom frowned, trying to think beyond the small details the paper offered, wondering what this meant and where it was going. The muggle war had been raging for years now, since the spring of his first year, and that had seemed consuming enough when he was at the orphanage and sometimes even when he was at Hogwarts but this was different.

From Germany to France, that was how the muggle war had spread…

There was a scoffing noise and Tom looked up to find Evans staring at him with an expression that was trying to decide between being derisive and amused, “You’re going to be late for your prefect meeting, Riddle.”

Tom cast a quick tempus and cursed when Evans was proven correct and quickly set down the paper and made to move to the compartment where the meeting was being held, “I’ll see you later then.”

“Right…” But Tom wasn’t listening and was out the door instead leaving Evans and the newspaper behind.

(Later, in the prefect meeting, Tom would be informed that Albus Dumbledore had disappeared sometime over the summer and had yet to return. Someone else would be teaching in his place during his absence.)

* * *

“Dumbledore can’t be gone, he’s not supposed to be.” Evans said incredulously, multiple times, when he failed to find Dumbledore at the feast.

“I’ll grant you that but nevertheless I’m afraid he isn’t here and hasn’t been for some time according to the headmaster.”

It was the night after the sorting ceremony, Tom had finally finished with the first years, and once again he and Evans were the only ones who used the common room at ungodly hours of the night and early morning.

“No, but, someone would have said something about this. I’m sure they would have.” Evans said, pacing back and forth, looking a bit like a demented pendulum. Tom watched his progression with tired eyes, unsure exactly what Evans wanted him to say, if he wanted to be consoled or if he wanted to be brought to terms with the situation.

“They did, Evans, what did you think that announcement at the feast was?” Tom said but Evans seemed to disregard that, as if he and Tom were talking about two entirely different things.

“No, I know but… This isn’t right.” Evans finally concluded, stopping abruptly and shoving his hands deep into his pocket and looking disturbed, more disturbed than he had even seemed when Tom had opened the chamber.

Tom felt something cold creeping into his chest and in spite of his rationalizations he felt himself growing alarmed as well.

“What do you think happened to him?” Evans asked, too quickly after the silence, as if he’d just blurted out the question.

“They didn’t say.” Tom said quietly, and they hadn’t, only that Dumbledore had said he’d had business in France and then never returned. Whatever it was Dippet hadn’t been inclined to give too much information, only he had seemed alarmed, as if he too had no idea where the deputy professor could possibly be.

Evans looked as if he was shrinking into himself, growing smaller by each second, his face terrified, “He has to come back, he’s Dumbledore, he’s the greatest wizard of our age.”

Tom almost scoffed at that comment and responded that this was a very debatable fact but Evans’ expression stopped him. Evans didn’t believe what he was saying, it was in his eyes, in his posture, but he said it because he felt he had to. Because he was terrified beyond all logical thought.

“Evans, what do you know?” Tom asked quietly, the words barely more than a whisper.

Evans turned to him as if suddenly remember Tom was even there, his expression one of confusion, “Sorry?”

“You know something, come from somewhere, and I haven’t inquired but I need to know.” Tom leaned forward, attempting to convey with his expression that he knew this was not a petty question, that this dove into the deep and secret parts of Evans he never wanted to see but that he had to ask.

Evans’ eyes hardened, “I’ll never tell you.”

Tom threw his hands up in disbelieving exasperation, “Evans, really, is this the time for your theatrics? I wouldn’t ask if…”

“If what?” Evans cut him off, stepping forward towards Tom and the couch, his eyes filled with too much fire again.

“If you didn’t make it seem as if things were dire.” Tom finished. Evans deflated, his shoulders slumping, and the determination dripping from him.

“It’s not important, not now, that’s the problem… That’s the problem…” Evans sighed and shook his head, refusing to explain his words, “I’m going to bed.”

And then he left, leaving Tom to stare into the fire, and wonder why he was so terrified from a mystery that had not been fully explained and that he hadn’t come close to solving.

* * *

Most Slytherins weren’t nearly as subtle as they liked to believe themselves to be, particularly after partaking in far too much champagne at Slughorn’s little parties. The Prophet had proved next to useless, Tom’s peers had not.

Grindelwald, Grindelwald, Grindelwald.

The words were practically bleeding from the walls if you knew how to listen. Malfoy and the Blacks would discuss the man, the German wizard who seemed more concerned with eugenics even than the Nazis, and his steady approach towards England.

“Of course, he’ll only clear out the mudblood problem.” They said when Slughorn was busy chatting to some other student to overhear. “The pure Frenchmen must have held onto their property during the transition.”

Malfoy said these words as if he was reassuring himself though, there was nothing in them but alcoholic bravado, and Orion fingered his own glass nervously downing more alcohol than he should.

“Can you imagine England without mudbloods?” Malfoy continued when Black hadn’t responded, a sickly sweet smile on his face, as if it was forced on there, “He’s certainly a man of action you can give him that.”

“Have you heard anything directly from France?” Black asked suddenly and Malfoy paled slightly.

“No, ah not… Communication is difficult during these times you understand. I only presume because… Well the cause is the cause, and if he’s willing to get rid of our mudbloods we might as well let him.”

“As if we could stop him…” Black muttered.

They were nervous, in the same way that Evans was nervous, because it was clear from their conversations that they didn’t know what this man intended. They wanted to believe the best, desperately needed to, because there was nowhere else to run unless they wished to buy land in wizarding America.

And no one would buy land in wizarding America.

Grindelwald, it was Grindelwald who burned France in his wake, leaving nothing but rumors and failed communication attempts across the border.

Flamel left France with his wife before Grindelwald could reach his mansion, taking the stone with him, and rumor had it that they’d apparated to America. Flamel had never left Europe in the nine hundred years he’d been alive.

Some arrived in England, but they had all come before Grindelwald had reached their village, there was no word of Beauxbatons or the ministry. And meanwhile England just sat and waited and realized that an aurorcorps would not be effective against a single dark lord.

Tom decided to plan for the worst.

If there was an invasion, if they took the ministry, if they took Hogwarts what would Tom do? He was pureblood, he could prove it easily too even with his last name, all he needed was a snake. Unless they didn’t spare the purebloods either…

Evans was in denial and when he wasn’t in denial he was in a panic. He looked as if he would be almost relieved when the worst happened, as if only then he’d know what to do, he couldn’t handle the calm before the storm. He kept theorizing where Dumbledore might be, what was happening in France, had even proposed that he go out and stop Grindlewald himself as if it was his destiny.

Evans couldn’t sit still.

If the Germans invaded, if they took the ministry, if they took Hogwarts, if they didn’t spare purebloods then what would Tom do?

A horcrux, he’d need a horcrux, more than he’d needed one before (and even then it had been necessary) because as shown by his duel with Evans he was unprepared for true combat. He’d have to train, convince Evans to duel him, to learn how to win fights. He’d have to prepared for the absolute worst case, and then, if it didn’t happen then it wouldn’t have been a waste at least. 

* * *

“Real fights aren’t like duels. There’s no bowing, no politeness, no… courtesy I guess. In a real fight you and the other person are going to be as dirty and muggle as you want, because if you lose then you’re dead, and you both know that.”

Strangely enough asking Evans to help him with dueling, to be his partner, was the exact thing that Evans needed. He seemed more certain of himself, as if he was filling a known role once again, and he didn’t have to think about what was steadily coming even as he prepared for it.

“I remember.” Tom said, thinking of his fight in the chamber, and how it had started like a duel but how it had not ended like one. That was how Tom had lost.

“Speed is more important than power. If you’re fast then all you need is expelliarmus. A wandless wizard’s a dead wizard, you don’t need to kill them, you don’t need to torture them, you just need to disarm them.” Evans said, giving Tom a pointed look as if Tom might have some difficulty with that, which was a little insulting but Tom let it slide.

“Alright, you probably know more spells than I do so there’s no real use teaching you that… I guess we should just duel and see how it goes.” With that Evans shrugged and moved into a fighting stance, and true to his words there was no bowing, no courtesy, only a hardening in his eyes as there was down in the chamber itself.

Once again he found himself throwing up shields, fairly powerful ones, ducking to the side, constantly watching for Evans footwork and his hands and trying to read his lips over the noise.

The truly sad thing was, that after weeks of repeating this, he would still only on rare occasions defeat Evans in a duel.

* * *

Only a few weeks into spring the ministry of magic fell. 

* * *

There was light rain that morning, the sun was pale in the sky, overshadowed by clouds and mist. Each blade of grass was bejeweled with a drop of dew and when the light reflected in them the grounds glittered.

It was a Saturday, there were no classes that day, and he couldn’t remember why later but he was staring out at the lake from one of the windows and he couldn’t tear his eyes away. In his robes he’d stored his diary, and again he couldn’t remember why except that perhaps he’d known that it’d been coming, he’d been carrying it all week.

They’d apparated in front of the gate, in the other direction, so Tom didn’t see them when they arrived. He only saw what they didn’t touch, the Forbidden Forest, the lake, and heard when the wards came crashing down.

There was a great shuddering in the air, a vibration, even as the ground remained still and for a moment it felt as if he was going blind. Colors danced in the air, all colors he could name, and there was a high pitched ringing somewhere as if someone had slid their finger around the rim of a wine glass.

And then a too loud crack and shattering as the wards fell.

“Evans.”

The rest was hard to remember, blurred, only that he had turned immediately from where he was had not waited for any action or any movement and had sprinted through the castle looking for Evans where he’d seen him last and where he’d expect him to be. At some point he must have run into Evans, looking ready to charge into battle again, that grim determination and acceptance on his face as if all things came to this, and Tom pulled him in the other direction.

He remembered the sound of screaming, the smell of blood, the light of spells in the corridors, a professor he failed to recognize (couldn’t think enough to recognize) slumped against a wall with a hole where his heart should have been, and still he kept moving up and up with Evans dragged in a daze behind him.

The next thing he would clearly remember, when he regained his process to think, was that he had taken them to that room on the seventh floor and had requested a room that would keep them alive and remain shut.


	5. Chapter 5

“ _Deep in human unconscious is a pervasive need for a logical universe that makes sense. But the real universe is always one step beyond logic_ ”

\- Dune, Frank Herbert

* * *

Someone had said that, a muggle, it sounded like a muggle phrase. Tom had always tried to quote wizards, even to himself, after he’d learned of their existence and his true place in the world. Somehow they’d never stuck, never lingered, and it was always those damn muggle phrases that came back to haunt him.

Evans was sleeping, after cursing, screaming, threatening to kill Tom if he didn’t let him go out there and die with the rest of them, and being shot in the back by Tom with a sleeping spell Evans had finally closed his eyes.

He looked worn, tired, probably hadn’t been sleeping for months. Tom had dragged him onto one of the two beds in the room, curiously reminiscent of the Slytherin dormitory, and had left him on top of the covers.

There were supplies, of sorts, two beds, a clock, a small window on the door which showed the outside but did not show in, barricades, shelves and shelves of books, a German to English dictionary, a first aid kit, a station to create potions, a zone partitioned off for magical experimentation, a pipe presumably from the Hogwarts pipe system which supplied water, but there was one essential thing missing.

There was no food.

Necessity was the mother of invention and Tom Riddle was very smart. He would have to be very smart if he wanted to live.

The Germans weren’t going to leave Hogwarts any time soon, not after they’d butchered its staff and students. Hogwarts was England, maybe even more than the ministry itself, and because of that the Germans wouldn’t simply leave.

But if the Germans didn’t leave in a few weeks then he and Evans were going to starve.

Unless Tom was exceedingly clever.

He stood, flipped through the books on the shelf, Transfiguration, Potions, Alchemy, Healing, everything practical and theoretical that he could ever need for this situation, but he knew without looking that no easy solution would be found in any of those pages.

Gamp’s Law, or the exceptions to it, that was the problem. Thou shalt not create food, one of the few commandments passed down to those who dare transfigure and transform. You can multiply it, enlarge it, conjure it if you know where it is, but you cannot create it or transfigure it permanently from an already existing substance.

(And whenever he closed his eyes he remembered the screaming outside, the smell of blood, and couldn’t help but feel panicked at the thought of his enemies closing in. Because if he faltered, if he failed, then there was nowhere left to turn.)

He had about a month to prove centuries of research wrong, maybe less, with that Tom sat down in a chair by the shelf and began to read.

* * *

“You son of a bitch!”

Tom lifted his head, it felt too heavy to belong to him, and stared across at Evans. He found that he couldn’t really feel anything at the fact that Evans was awake, that his eyes were blazing, and that he looked almost like he had down in the chamber.

Tom was too tired to care about such observations.

“You put me to sleep! You shot me in the back and…”

“You were being unreasonable.” Tom said with a sigh, Evans was also being too loud, it was making Tom’s head pound. He didn’t need this, he didn’t need this, he needed to think and not be yelled at or they were all going to die.

“I should be out there Riddle, I can’t just sit here and…”

“Everyone we know is dead.” Tom interrupted, closing his book and summoning whatever energy was left in him to deal with an irate and irrational Evans.

Evans looked as if Tom had stabbed him through his stomach, his eyes were glazed slightly, his expression slack and his voice terribly quiet, “You don’t know that.”

“I saw many bodies on the way to this room Evans and I know you did as well.” And he could still see them, every time he closed his eyes he saw them, he saw them even now as Evans walked stiffly towards him until he was far too close for comfort.

“You don’t know though! There’s probably still people out there…”

“Who won’t give a damn if you rush out to… What exactly is it you want to do again?” Tom asked eyeing Evans critically, did Evans need to play the hero so badly, was the chamber an instinct reaction that he couldn’t quell?

Did he always have to go looking for ways to get himself killed? Knowing that he was going to get himself killed.

“Help, Riddle, help!” Evans said reaching down and shaking Tom’s shoulders, his grip much too tight and desperate. Then something cold appeared in his eyes and he threw his hands in the air, “Oh but of course you wouldn’t understand! It’s like I almost forgot who you really are, Riddle, Voldemort!”

And that was enough.

“Voldemort is dead.” Tom said shortly with enough force in his voice to even cause Evans to stop and listen.

“We have been invaded Evans, we are students in a castle filled with German dark wizards who would love nothing better than to cut a pair of mudbloods down. Now, you may know combat, and you may be good but you are not good enough to face down a dozen men at a time who are casting spells to kill.” Tom stood, looked down on Evans who was only inches away from him, and offered him a cold and unsympathetic smile.

“If you rush out of here now, if you run out into the hallway, where do you imagine you will go? The castle’s been taken, everyone is already dead except for us, what will you do? Say you miraculously take back the castle, get rid of all the Germans, what then? Congratulations, Harry Evans, you have earned yourself an empty castle. Of course, this is only if you don’t die in the process.”

For a moment they stared at each other, both fingering their wands, breathing heavily, and never taking their eyes off the other’s hand.

“I won’t sit by and do nothing.” Evans said, a forced calm in his voice.

“If you go out there then you will die for nothing.”

For a moment they only stared at each other, each of them with too much will and drive to back down, and Tom wondered if they would be standing there forever each waiting for the other to move. But then something within Evans faltered.

Evans stepped back and laughed slightly a sort of mad dazed laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “But then why am I alive? Why am I here?”

Evans stumbled back onto the bed, sat down on it, and to Tom’s amazement continued breaking into hysterics that sounded more like sobbing than laughter and tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. He tore his glasses off his face, threw them onto the covers, and placed his head in his hands so that Tom couldn’t see his eyes.

There was nothing Tom could say or think to say, as he watched Evans shake and rattle, and again he wished that Evans was a machine. That Evans was always that cold lethal man he was down in the chamber, where there was nothing but death in him, because that was better than this.

“Evans…” Tom started and trailed off.

“It’s all my fault.” Evans whispered, the words almost inaudible.

“What?”

Evans looked up at him, his eyes red and swollen, and he smiled weakly over at Tom, “It’s all my fault.”

“What is?”

“Everything.” Evans lifted his hands to the room, motioning towards Tom, the books, the walls, “I’ve ruined everything and I don’t even know how.”

Evans sighed, still smiling, still shaking, tears still in the corner of his eyes, “I’m a time traveler, Riddle, that’s the secret.”

He didn’t wait for Tom to think, to try to puzzle out those words, because how could he be a time traveler? Time travel couldn’t be used like that, you couldn’t go far, only a few hours and even then how could someone his age have access to time travel? To time travel of that magnitude because it must have been years…

Evans stood, began pacing, throwing his arms about wildly in gestures as if giving on a show for his captive audience. Tom could only silently watch.

“That’s the great bloody secret! Didn’t mean to, didn’t even think it was possible, but I guess accidents happen when you’re running for your life in the Department of Mysteries. All I know is that one moment I was running through the time room, explosions and light everywhere, and the next… Well, here I am, ta-da, ladies and gentlemen Harry James Potter fifty blood years before his conception! Thank you very much!” Evans gave a mock bow towards Tom, but again did not wait for Tom to speak, continued.

“And of course, when I realized where and when I was, after getting the bloody paperwork into Hogwarts and finally being accepted I just couldn’t help myself. I have a saving people problem, if you haven’t noticed, Tom bloody Marvolo Riddle! I couldn’t let it happen, everything happen, and I said that I didn’t care what happened to me or to anything else! I didn’t care anymore!” Evans laughed again, running a hand through his hair and shaking his head again and again and again.

“I didn’t care… And now I’ve ruined everything.”

He sat back down, closed his eyes, and just continued shaking his head as if denying it all might make it go back into the ether. As if the world outside the room didn’t have to be real if he chose not to believe in it.

“What year was it, where you’re from?” Tom asked, his mouth suddenly dry, and his thoughts empty.

“1996.”

“How did you get into Hogwarts if you didn’t have an identity?”

“It wasn’t easy, I worked over the summer and saved up the money, then I went knocking on doors in Knockturn Alley and found someone who’d make the papers. Besides, you said it yourself, nobody gives a shit about muggleborns so it’s easy to pretend to be one.”

For a moment Tom just stared at him, all thought of Gamp’s Law, of the Germans outside, of everything thrown out of his head. He was so tired, he could feel it behind his eyes, the weariness and need to just lie down and rest.

But there was something that needed to be said, before Evans went any further.

“I never realized you were egotistical.”

Evans looked up at him in confusion, brief irritation flitting across his features, “What?”

“Whatever you did doesn’t matter.”

“What are you talking about? I’m responsible for the death of hundreds, maybe thousands of people! I’m the reason…”

“It doesn’t matter.” Tom repeated, “Time traveler or not you have no right to take the fate of the world into your own hands. It’s very selfish of you to assume that I, that Dumbledore, that anyone else is a product of your own meddling.”

“But don’t you see none of this happened, none of this is supposed to happen! You were supposed to open the Chamber of Secrets and kill a girl! You were supposed to become Voldemort and kill my parents and attempt to kill me! This, _this_ , never happened!” Evans said throwing his hands into the air and for a moment Tom could almost picture this world that didn’t exist anymore. A world where he went on to become Voldemort, to live his dream, and at some point fifty years from now confronted a younger Evans.

But it wasn’t real anymore.

“It doesn’t matter.” Tom said for the third and final time, “We are free to destroy ourselves if we wish to. I am free to stop being Voldemort, Grindelwald is free to invade England, and you are even free to take the responsibility onto yourself even if it isn’t real. You can’t be responsible for people, Evans, it doesn’t work like that.”

Evans said nothing for a few moments, and then finally, in a weak and desperately amused voice said, “You know, I never imagined I’d be getting a pep talk from you of all people.”

“Well, they aren’t exactly my forte.” Tom admitted, which got a surprised laugh out of Evans. It wasn’t a bad sound, it was a short harsh noise but it wasn’t unpleasant to hear.

“Yeah, right…” Evans responded before sighing and confessing, “I always thought Voldemort was the worst that it could possibly get… I was so wrong.”

Tom was very tempted to ask what he was like then, this Voldemort that he would never be, had it been all he imagined? However he was more tired than he was curious, he needed sleep, he needed a solution, he needed so many more things than visions of realities that no longer existed.

It didn’t matter, he couldn’t let it matter…

He didn’t have time to waste making it matter.

Tom wandered over to the bed, falling down on top of the covers, and watched as the lights dimmed slightly in reaction to his wish. Well, at the very least the Room of Requirement was good for something.

“Riddle.”

Tom turned his head to find Evans staring at him, still without his glasses, and without them he looked so different. His eyes cut far deeper without the thick lenses to obscure them.

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

Tom waited for him to say something more but Evans turned to his side, away from Tom, and said nothing. Eventually Tom fell asleep, too many thoughts rushing through his head, and his dreams filled with bombs and time travelers.

* * *

The next morning was better, or at least what Tom assumed was morning, it was hard to tell. Tom found enough energy to resume concentrating, reading through all he thought he needed to, and slowly but surely formulating ideas that would have been excellent to throw in Albus Dumbledore’s face.

Only, academic achievement seemed too petty to be considered right now.

Evans was sullen and silent but he no longer made for the door at any given opportunity, he flicked through some of the books, inspected the equipment, but did his best to stay quiet and out of the way.

Finally Evans said, about halfway through the day, “We need a plan.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing for the past two days?” Tom muttered, still intent on the paragraph he was reading on advanced Transfiguration powered by the use of dragon’s blood.

“Reading books isn’t a plan.” Evans oh so helpfully pointed out. Ever a man of action, that was Evans, which wasn’t bad when you happened to be in a fist fight but was grating when you were in a room filled with books.

“Attempting not to starve is a plan.” Tom replied, barely listening as he attempted to concentrate, reaching for another book to cross-reference opinions.

“Believe me, I’ve read books all year, they don’t get you very far.” Evans scoffed, and Tom was about to respond that this was because it was Evans doing the reading when he thought further about that statement.

“Time.” Tom said shortly and turned to look at Evans, “You were trying to solve your time travel problem.”

That’s why he’d had such odd books from the library, why he’d constantly been trying to meet with Dumbledore, he’d been trying and failing to get back to his own time. And by summer, when he’d received his OWL scores, he’d all but given up.

“Yeah.” Evans admitted with a stiff shrug, attempting to be casual even while the pain lingered in his expression.

He wondered briefly for a moment what it would be like if Evans had succeeded sometime during that time period. What if Evans was there one day and then gone the next without any explanation at all?

In spite of everything that’s happened Tom was very glad that Evans failed.

“Regardless, Evans, I’m a little better at reading books than you are.” Tom said stiffly attempting to change the topic.

“I know that.” Evans responded with a sigh sounding exhausted, “But Riddle, Tom, we can’t stay in here forever. Even if you can make food… or whatever, we can’t stay here.”

But they also can’t afford to be killed and Tom knows that if they were to leave this door then they would most certainly be killed.

And Tom Riddle still didn’t want to die.

“Where do you suggest we go?” Tom asked, and there was a moment where Evans was silent, because he had no idea either.

Hogwarts was gone, the ministry was gone, where could they turn now?

“I don’t know but we can’t stay inside this room forever.”

They’d go mad, it was left unsaid but it was so very true, if they stayed in here then there’d be no point to either of them. But Tom didn’t want to die.

Tom put down his book slowly, eyed the door, the window which showed the blood splattered hallway beyond it.

“A week.” He said slowly and then turned to Evans, catching his surprised expression, “Give me a week to study, to work, and then we’ll leave.”

Evans said nothing, merely nodded, and suddenly Tom’s month deadline had just been whittled down to only a week. He walked to the book shelf and pulled down the English to German dictionary and the book on healing.

* * *

The morning of the day they had decided to leave both of them stared at the new exit that had formed in the room. It lead somewhere outside of the castle and away from Hogwarts grounds, as if the room itself knew that Hogwarts was no longer safe; it had no decorations and instead was a cold dark tunnel that bore into the foundations of the stone.

Both of them were carrying rather large enchanted packs, filled with the most necessary of the books, water, potions, whatever Tom had felt was most necessary and what Evans had agreed to carry.

There was nothing holding them back, and yet Tom could not take that first step forward.

“It’s always better, when you get it over with, it’s the waiting that’s the hardest.” Evans said suddenly, staring forward and mustering his resolve. These words seemed to be enough for him because he was stepping forward, “Come on, Riddle, time to go.”

Evans crawled through the hole, paused when he didn’t hear Tom behind him, and looked back, “You coming?”

Tom turned to look at the room one last time, somehow certain that he would never see it, never see Hogwarts again. His only true home for so many years and now he was leaving it behind forever. How was he supposed to feel about that?

He felt so much, too much, at the thought of that.

“Yes, I’m coming.”

And before he could change his mind he followed behind Evans into the dark where the world waited.


	6. Chapter 6

“ _I am a theater of processes_ … _I am prey to the imperfect vision, to the race consciousness and its terrible purpose_ ”

\- Dune, Frank Herbert

* * *

They could hear the echoes of German laughter as their path wound close to the walls, and whenever they heard it he and Evans both stiffened, the only sounds they made was the quiet shuffling that came of crawling through the dark.

Hogwarts was so large, he found himself thinking, when you couldn’t see where you were going. It’d grown smaller in the last five years, at first seeming almost overwhelming with the moving stair cases and endless portraits, but later… Later he had almost begun to take it for granted, only now did he feel lost once again.

It seemed so long ago and he had been so pitifully naïve.

During that meeting with Dumbledore he had felt as if everything had fallen into place, his destiny had been assured… He did not realize that destiny was a dark and narrow path whose outcome no one could see.

No one in his divination course had predicted the fall of England and Hogwarts. Of course, even if they had Tom doubted he would have believed it, true the muggle war had been raging for years but wizards weren’t muggles. They didn’t have to concern themselves with the Blitz, the loss of France, anything at all. And Tom had truly believed that, had believed that Dippet wasn’t entirely wrong when he ignored Tom’s desperation at being sent back to muggle London, because to Tom there was no hope of them understanding.

Wizards were so above muggles that a wizard who was not a mudblood should have no concept of the world war.

Or so Tom had thought and wanted to believe. Now though, now he almost would rather be in muggle London instead of the wizarding one. Because he could only imagine how dangerous it was when wizards set out to destroy one another. (Because when Tom had set out to destroy someone, to even contemplate it, the results would be almost too horrific to comprehend.)

The air began to taste less stale and ahead the way looked blue instead of black, soon he could see the outline of Evans body, and then his feet as Evans crawled out into the open, Tom followed suit.

They were inside the remains of a shop, Tom couldn’t tell which one though, the walls still stood but the pillars were charred and part of the roof had caved in. Water dripped from the beams and in places spells appeared to still be eating at the wood. Slowly Evans moved into a crouching position, still perfectly silent, adjusting his glasses slightly, and then he stood so that he was leaning over the counter.

He motioned for Tom to stand.

The place was empty.

Immediately Tom began opening cupboards, at first carefully, and then desperately as the hunger caught up to him. Soon all he could think of was food, not even starvation, just food any food every food he had ever seen in his life.

“Tom!” Evans whispered hoarsely, giving him a panicked glance, and then cast a silencing charm but Tom barely noticed but kept searching.

Eventually he found it, one untouched cupboard, he opened a jar of magically preserved peaches uncaring how the sticky juice dripped down his hands and face. Evans was staring at him, his mouth slightly ajar, looking dazed and almost hypnotized.

Tom threw the empty glass to the side, the jar shattering silently, and reached for another.

Evans walked towards him slowly, his wand shaking, slowly he put it away and reached over Tom’s head for a jar of his own trembling and casting glances at the door but eventually growing distracted by the act of swallowing as quickly as possible.

When they finished they both sat down, leaning against the counter, staring at where the doorway should have been when this was house instead of a battlefield.

Tom felt full, sticky, and horribly empty.

“Being a wizard should mean never having to live like a dog.” Tom said quietly, not even looking at Evans, just staring straight ahead.

Scattered between them were too many empty jars, only one or two remained, and the thought of it made Tom feel ill. A week, only a week, and there’d been no thought of self-control or even self-preservation.

Evans didn’t respond.

For the first time in a very long time, perhaps in his entire existence, Tom felt shame. He felt his face burn beneath that horrible sticky substance that he couldn’t seem to wipe from his face. Worse than that moment in the Chamber, somehow, this was infinitely worse.

This simple, degrading moment, of lying in the aftermath of his own overwhelming hunger.

Move past it, he told himself, move past it, move on or you will be dead and then there will be only nothing. Move on, Tom, you must move on.

He couldn’t bring himself to stand.

“Last time I ate that much…” Evans started only to stop, a strangely desperate smile on his face, “Last time I ate that much was my first Hogwarts feast.”

Tom could only look over at him, feeling absurdly as if this was any other conversation where Evans made some ridiculous statement, and there was Evans just grinning at him like the complete idiot that he was. It was just too much.

He started laughing again.

Why was it, that when he was in the worst of situations, he always thought it was funny? And that, that in itself, was perhaps even more hilarious.

And Evans soon joined in, the first time Tom had ever heard him laugh, really laugh as if he meant it. And soon the empty, wretched house, was filled with the sound of their wild and overwhelming laughter.

* * *

“We’ll need to leave soon.”

Morning had revealed a less abandoned Hogsmede than the night before, true most of the Germans were infesting the castle, but a few were camped in the village wandering here and there in the daylight.

Not that any of them had bothered to patch up the village after invading. The village was in ruins, each one black and slumped and falling in on itself, looking as if they had been disemboweled. Not even the soul of the village remained.

They paid no mind to Tom and Evans, hidden under hastily put together wards, but that didn’t mean that Tom liked the idea of hanging under their noses. Eventually someone a little more skilled than a grunt was going to come by and notice something was off; Tom didn’t lucky or enough or arrogant enough to pretend otherwise.

And there was still the question of what had happened at Hogwarts, because they still didn’t know just how far the Germans had gone.

Had they spared the pureblood sons of lords? Some had left Hogwarts, before the end, Malfoy had been summoned home along with most of the heirs of the noble houses. Those that remained were the less favored children or else those that didn’t need to be whisked off to America at the first sign of trouble. Still, there had been a few pureblood students…

There had been so much blood though, so many flashes of light in the halls, that Tom couldn’t help but think that they hadn’t been that picky with who they had run down. But perhaps that had been the point, Hogwarts was so much more than a school, it had existed for longer than the Ministry of Magic.

By conquering Hogwarts, by taking it in the most brutal of fashions, Grindelwald had destroyed England in one fell swoop.

Tom wasn’t always the most patriotic of people but even he couldn’t help but feel the low burn of resentment at that thought.

These bastards had thought they’d won and it’d been so very easy for them.

Looking out of what remained of the window, with Evans leaning over his shoulder to get his own view, watching the laughing krauts Tom couldn’t help but feel that any one of them would make a fine sacrifice for the many horcruxes he planned to make.

“Right,” Evans said, interrupting Tom’s thoughts, “Right, we should get going… To London, you think?”

Tom turned to look at Evans, his eyebrows raised, once again reminded that despite Evans’ experiences he sometimes was the dimmest person Tom had ever met, “London? Evans, are you daft?”

Evans flushed, it was amazing that he still had the ability to flush with so little food in his system while they were on the run from murderous Germans, “No! Where else would we go?”

“Anywhere,” Tom said darkly, his eyes lingering on the Germans, wearing plain and worn robes that had clearly seen too much time in the battlefield, “Evans, London fell months ago, if this is Hogsmede after a week, and that was Hogwarts after a night, can you imagine London?”

“But people are in London!” Evans said and suddenly Tom knew exactly where Evans was going with this.

Evans wanted to join a resistance group, no not even that, he still wanted to do what he tried to do the night of the massacre. He wanted to rush out into glorious battle, to free his country and his conscious, and get himself killed in the process.

Evans, whether he admitted it or even realized it himself, wanted to die.

For the first time, since Evans had told him, Tom found himself truly processing what Evans had revealed. That he wasn’t Evans at all, but was in fact a Potter, who had lived in 1995 and had somehow been transported to the past. That in his world Tom was Voldemort but Tom had not done what Grindelwald was now in the process of doing.

Voldemort, he was so tempted to ask questions about it… Had he been, was it everything he imagined it was? But that was one question he’d never get a straight answer for, not from Evans, he’d made that very clear. But still, there had once been a future where Voldemort had existed…

No, thrived, he’d thrived. Taken away by goddamn Germans.

He interrupted himself before he could get too caught up on dreams that were better left buried.

“People are in London?” Tom repeated, dumbly, and Evans said nothing in response his face just darkening as if he was daring Tom to say no. No, like he wanted Tom to say no, because Voldemort would have said no.

This was going to turn into some ridiculous moral argument where Tom was deemed automatically wrong because of actions he hadn’t taken, wasn’t it? The thought of that alone left him too tired to deal with it, it wasn’t like he had any better ideas anyway.

“We’ll have to walk, Evans, they set up anti-apparition wards after the Ministry fell.” Tom said, not because this wasn’t true, because if they started walking Evans would realize how far from London they truly were.

He’d realize that they could go anywhere in the world, anywhere beyond Britain, and that they weren’t obligated to these people who had always treated them like shit.

Evans just blinked at him, shock written across his features, “Really?”

“This doesn’t mean I agree, anywhere is better than London, but we also can’t stay here. If you insist we go see London then by God we’ll go see London.”

It was almost sad, Tom thought to himself, the fact that Evans’ ridiculous joy at the prospect of throwing himself at the Germans in London, getting them all killed, also somehow made Tom happy as well.

* * *

“You know, you can call me Potter.”

They were still somewhere in Scotland, night had long since fallen and they’d set up camp beneath wards in the forest. They’d done their best to stay off the beaten path. He didn’t know how Wizards did warfare but everything smelled like smoke, like a village somewhere close by was burning…

Tom looked over at Evans, who was looking at him with some indecipherable expression.

“Harry Potter, that’s my real name.” He insisted, once he’d caught Tom’s eye.

Tom just raised his eyebrows. Evans had brought this up more than once, as if reminding Tom, but Tom had yet to stop calling him Evans. Perhaps he was being stubborn, but Potter somehow just didn’t fit. It was too sharp, over too fast, you could linger over the syllables of Evans and let it fester.

Finally Evans seemed to catch on, his face darkened, and almost as if the words were forced out of him he said, “Is it seriously so difficult, to call me by my actual name?”

“What’s in a name, tis neither hand nor foot nor any other part of a man…” Tom started drily only for Evans to cut him off.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means that you have no appreciation for Shakespeare.”

Evans sulked for a moment looking more like a petulant child than anything else. It really was embarrassing that Tom had lost to this.

“That’s rich coming from you, you know, since you have that whole thing about names…” Evans muttered under his breath, well not really, since it was loud enough for Tom to hear every word clearly.

“For the last time, Evans, I don’t have a thing about names.” Tom said with a sigh, clearly it was going to be one of those days where they bickered at each other.

“You do too!” Evans declared pointing at him, “I am Lord Voldemort! Please, you’ve always hated your name!”

That’s because his was the name of a mudblood bastard who was rotting in the earth where he belonged. Every part of his name was tied to something despicable whether it was Riddle or Gaunt; there was nothing worth salvaging in his name.

“Perhaps.” He admitted, at first causing a look of triumph on Evans face and then irritation as this triumph failed to move Tom in any fashion.

There was a moment of silent and Evans became distant, “This is all so messed up.”

He didn’t say it, not then, but unspoken was that Tom was never supposed to be the lesser of any evil. Tom felt much the same, they weren’t meant to be traveling together, towards London and then who knew what. They’d been thrown together, not by fate, but by something darker and far more deadly than that.

“What will you do, when we get to London?” Tom asked.

Evans shrugged listlessly, “What are you going to do, Riddle?”

Create horcruxes out of German corpses and hide them in every brick until the very streets of Diagon Alley were paved in Tom’s soul. He doubted Evans would appreciate that, he doubted Evans even knew what a Horcrux was, “I’ve learned that it’s best not to look too far ahead into one’s future. All of my predictions have turned out drastically wrong.”

Evans gave a short laugh, “Merlin, you’re right. I guess it’s not that much different than my time after all. I never really planned ahead either, just… get by a year at a time you know.”

Maybe that’s all they could ever do.

Before Evans could add in anything else something shifted in the underbrush, they both fell silent, Tom checked the wards and saw that they were still stable. They should hold…

Two wizards appeared, older than Evans and Tom, perhaps in their twenties. These weren’t like the ones in Hogsmeade those, they weren’t drunk on victory, they were perfectly aware of their surroundings. And they were searching for something.

Their eyes settled on the edge of the wards.

“Shit.” Evans uttered, clearly realizing what Tom was now realizing, that a week in the Room of Requirement hadn’t been nearly long enough.

Evans gave him a look, and it seemed as if time slowed for a moment, and then he was gone stepping outside of the wards with wand in hand.

Evans was good but…

But in the end Tom was left stunned, behind his intact wards, watching as an unconscious Evans was being pulled away his wand pocketed by one of the men. And Tom was alone in the wilderness.


	7. Chapter 7

“ _For her seed is my seed and her voice is my voice. And she sees unto the farthest reaches of possibility. Yea, unto the vale of the unknowable does she see because of me”_

\- Dune, Frank Herbert

* * *

He didn’t walk towards London, that was Evans’ goal and Evans’ goals were suicide, but he kept walking all the same. To sit still was to die, that didn’t mean he felt better about walking without direction.

(In his dreams Evans’ screams echoed pitifully in the distance, sounding, strangely enough, closer to the call of a trumpet than a human voice.

Tom ignored it.)

He could go anywhere, America perhaps, many had already gone to America. Or he could go South, past Europe somehow and to Africa. There was old and ancient magic in the dark continent, akin to that the druids had practiced, before they had been eliminated by the Roman wizards.

(But when you can go anywhere the truth is that you can go nowhere.)

It was easier, in a sense, quiet. There was no more battle of wills with the bastard, no more needless bickering over things that clearly would never happen. Tom was once again free to be whatever he liked, Voldemort or not Voldemort.

His destiny was his own once again! He was alone and could plot, plan, and prepare as he so chose. He could start somewhere new, somewhere exotic, gain all the knowledge he would need and…

After the third day he stopped.

Sitting alone beside the fire he’d made he stared into the depths and for the first time in a long time he thought about what it meant to be alive. He was surviving, but that was all. Each day was focused on strengthening wards, where to go next, how to get out, but nothing more than that.

Everything had stopped for him, nothing had purpose, he was existing merely to exist.

He had wanted more than that; once.

Not too long ago Tom Marvolo Riddle had had dreams of grandeur, of subjugating his pureblood peers who had routinely dismissed him as well as the mudbloods and muggles whom Tom should never have been lumped with in the first place. Slughorn had said, earnestly, that Tom could perhaps become the youngest Minister of Magic Britain had ever seen.

That Tom, Voldemort, would have been revolted with the Tom Riddle he was now.

Somewhere out there Evans was dying for nothing, perhaps he was already dead, his wand handed down to some other lesser wizard. Tom had once wanted to kill him, he’d wanted to make it slow and painful, but more he’d wanted to do it himself.

The Chamber of Secrets, taking Voldemort from him, Tom had never truly forgotten that pain he’d just… Put it aside.

But now that he kept looking for Evans as he walked, kept expecting to hear his voice and remembering that soon Evans wouldn’t even exist anymore, it came bubbling back to the surface.

That agony and rage.

And perhaps was that single blinding thought that was the cause of Tom’s momentary lapse in sanity.

The thought that Evans owed him that, not his life, but his death. Evans’ torturous, bloody, agonizing death belonged to Tom and Tom alone. It belonged to Tom as he could have been, as Voldemort, and it belonged to him now.

And he wasn’t going to let the Kraut pigs touch it.

So on that third day he turned back in the direction he’d come, his eyes blazing, and slowly but surely retraced his steps letting that irrational black part of his soul rise to the surface with the need to remind and reinforce and make everyone who’d ever doubted him look him in the face and remember his name.

Orphan, mudblood, bastard, let them see it and let them see him in spite of it.

Let them think it as he drained the blood from their bodies, the breath from their lungs, and branded their corpses so that even as the carrion picked at their flesh they would always carry the reminder of their own personal grim reaper.

They would remember his name.

* * *

The dreams became more frequent, and with their frequency Tom found he was willing to suspend disbelief and take Evans’ starring role as evidence of his still being among the living, that and… these things had a curious weight to them.

An unquestionable clarity that one didn’t usually have in dreams, as if he was not truly dreaming but traveling outside of himself, to somewhere dark and unfamiliar but wholly Evans.

This time Evans was muttering, not bleeding, but still hardly recognizable curled in as he is on himself. He seemed younger, thin, haunted, and terribly afraid.

Sometimes Evans screamed, sometimes he raged, sometimes he seemed perfectly aware of Tom’s presence and screamed, “Get out!”

And then Tom would be flung into reality, sitting upright, sweating, with the feeling that he had narrowly avoided some terrible fate.

But this time, this time, Evans seemed perfectly content to allow Tom to linger next to him in this small cramped space with only a mattress thrown inside.

“Evans,” Tom started, waiting for the other to react, but Evans only curled into himself tighter, “Evans, you need to tell me where they took you.”

Evans didn’t respond, didn’t even twitch, just kept muttering almost incomprehensively.

“If you don’t tell me where you are it will make it difficult to find you.”

At this, finally, Tom got a response.

It started with small chuckles and transformed into wild laughter, the walls cracking under the weight of the sound, and Evans rolled over to stare at him, “Find me? You’re coming to find me? Well, isn’t that just bloody wonderful? Did I ever say I wanted you to come and find me?!”

No, and Tom knew Evans would not appreciate it, not from Tom but that didn’t matter. Nothing really mattered except that Tom would do this, was bound and determined to do this, regardless of how Evans felt about it.

(Evans owed him, it didn’t matter that he’d saved Tom’s life from the Germans, that he’d spared him in the Chamber of Secrets, Evans owed him.)

“Would you rather be cut apart by Germans?” Tom asked and Evans flinched, twitched a little, but he still had that twisted grin on his face and was shaking his head.

“Oh, like you wouldn’t cut me up either, Riddle? I know what you really are and I know that no matter how bad they are you’re worse than…”

“But I’d kill them first and I’ll kill the rest of them first too.” Tom moved closer, grabbing Evans by the shoulders, ignoring the way Evans leaned back with true terror in his eyes, “I swear to you that I will kill every last one of them before I touch you.”

"God, you're sick! You're... demented!” Evans said, and Tom didn’t disagree, because even before all of this even at the age of eleven he knew that he wasn’t quite like the other orphans.

He’d never felt wrong, off, sick, but he’d never felt like anyone else either. So if that was what society chose to call it, then yes, yes he was. But he wouldn’t choose to be anything less either.

“Did you know that I have a weakness for muggle sayings?” Tom mused, watching as Evans continued to fall apart next to him, desperately trying to seem as if he wasn’t breaking at the seams, “Perhaps it’s my legacy as a mudblood bastard orphan, they just can’t help but stick. The wizarding ones… They pale in comparison, frankly, and I can never seem to remember a single one.”

“Maybe I’m the one whose sick, dreaming about you, you talking about killing people left and right…” Evans mumbled, seeming hell bent on ignoring Tom, on curling in on himself and letting the anger distract him.

Tom interrupted him, “There’s one I think applies very well to this situation. Better, Evans, the devil you know then the devil you don’t.”

For a moment the anger drained away from Evans face leaving something hollow and exhausted behind, “You know, for a while there… I almost thought you weren’t Voldemort.”

“I’m not, I can’t be.” The Voldemort Tom had dreamed had been wrenched from him first by Evans then by Germans, he couldn’t go back to that Voldemort, had no real desire to, “Not that Voldemort anyway, but I can be a different Voldemort… I can be more than this.”  

Evans just shook his head, his mouth a grim line, “You… You really can’t change, can you?”

No, he already had changed, but perhaps like always Evans was saying what he so desperately wanted to believe. Only this time, this time Evans couldn’t bring himself to believe it anymore.

Evans let out an agonized sob, leaning forward abruptly into Tom, sinking his nails into Tom’s arms, the kind of pained sound of someone attempting to breathe and function while their soul is being torn in half.

“I… I… I don’t want… I don’t want…” He repeated over and over, his head digging into Tom’s shoulder, as if trying to bury himself in it.

Tom didn’t ask what they were doing with him, why after so many days they hadn’t just killed him already, what they thought could learn from him or what they even wanted from him, in a way that didn’t matter.

“We’ll retake England, Evans, we’ll play the heroes you so desperately want to be. And then, then, when that’s over. Then I’ll kill you and you can die like you’ve always wanted.”

The sobs tried to turn themselves back into that wretched laughter Evans had started with and become something halfway in between, and in between the monstrous noises and the shaking of his thin frame, Evans said, “There… There was a prophecy, you know… Tom… There was a prophecy and… And… And I didn’t get to hear all of it. I didn’t hear it…”

Tom didn’t say it was alright, that it would be fine, that Evans would pull through, instead he only commanded, “Now, tell me where you are.”

And Evans did.

* * *

It was more of a gut feeling than actual coordinates, a sort of magnetic pull of walking in the correct direction, and an increasing feeling of assurance that this was the way he was meant to go.

He was feeling, strangely, more assured than he had in quite some time.

Underneath his clothes, pressed against him, was his old diary, one which he hadn’t written in for some time, since before his disastrous confrontation with Evans. Not owning anything of worth or importance he had once had the idea of being sentimental when it came to his first horcrux. The diary, he’d thought, because in a way it was as much a part of him as anything else would be.

That, after all, must have been why he’d kept it with him, from the beginning of the German invasion until now, this had always been some part of his plan. Tom had just forgotten it in the heady rush of survival

But now, now with the approach of this confrontation, this goal of reobtaining Evans and killing every German he found along the way… Now, that pushed aside plan of horcruxes was well within his mind.

The only thing in his mind really, rational thought, the ability to stop and question had faded on the way and hadn’t made a reappearance.

So he only slowed when he caught sight of the German camp, he didn’t panic, he just stopped and looked and thought about how best to go about this. It would do no good to go in guns blazing, again why did he always go back to those merlin damned muggle idioms, and it wasn’t really his style. That distinct lack of plan stank of Evans’ suicidally Gryffindor turn of thought and just rubbed Tom the wrong way even without the thought that it would probably get him killed.

If his only goal was to merely grab Evans and run he could try to approach closer to where he was being held. Given his mudblood status, if he hadn’t been left to die yet, then he probably wasn’t being watched too closely. But while this was safer than Evans’ usual plans it also wasn’t nearly satisfying enough. 

It was a small place, had once been a magical village, Tom imagined that not too long ago this little town had looked something like Hogsmeade. A cheerful bustling little village complete with its own baker, butcher, and everything you thought you might need in a simple world for those who lacked both talent and ambition.

But, like Hogsmeade, it had taken on a new charred quality as the original foundations of the village had been burned to the ground. In their place were newly, magically erected, grey buildings that were clearly more of a garrison than anything else. Likely this was simply a check-point, a place between Hogwarts and London that could be easily apparated to, most likely set up before the invasion of the castle.

This was probably where they sorted through prisoners, decided which ones were worth keeping and which were not, and if they were worth keeping for what reasons. Dark magic, cutting edge dark magic, often required sacrifices as well as test subjects for the truly experimental endeavors.

As a supposed mudblood Tom doubted Harry Evans was being kept around as a hostage.

Watching as Germans wove in and out, so assured in their movements into the town, as if two or three guards around the perimeter and a few well-placed wards were enough, Tom had a feeling that he’d like to test some dark magic of his own. After all, in Hogwarts, he never really had a chance to let loose as it were.

And some of the texts in the restricted section, the older ones that are too useful to be contraband but would be too dark to be printed now, said that fiendfyre looked beautiful. Like a fierce summoned god of fire who when brought into the world could not be taken out.

And as Tom had hoped, when the flames first caught at the edges of the buildings, the Germans had gotten a little cocky in their victory. They’d set up anti-apparition wards, guards, but they hadn’t prepared for the truly reckless. Those who would take the risk of destroying themselves if it meant destroying this one meaningless outpost.

Tom waited, circling around closer to that siren’s call of Evans, counting the panicking Germans as he passed. One, two, three, four… More than enough for a dozen horcruxes if he really wanted, but no, he really only wanted the one out of this. When he had more suitable containers he’d think about it.

Just when the Germans had transported themselves to the start of the flames, attempting to contain it and guard against it, Tom cast the spell again from the other direction, the flames from both spells racing towards each other and battling for dominance.

And then, when the fires had raged for some time, began to approach where the magnetic pull of Evans was originating from Tom slowly walked into the village ducking out of the way of rushing Germans and blasting through those who made unfortunate eye contact.

And beneath that cool assurance was a silent thrill that he’d only experienced in the Chamber of Secrets. Like this was what he had been born to do and had just been wasting so many years in Hogwarts ingratiating himself to professors and playing the perfect student that he’d never realized it.

He was… Almost having fun.

Probably later, when this odd mood wore off, when the brutality of their situation returned the panic and horror and exhaustion would consume. For now though, for now he would enjoy himself and his newfound purpose.

He walked through the door of a ruined building, the guards having fled to the fires or else been killed by Tom on the way there, stepping through his eyes roved over various bodies some twitching and some horribly still.

And in the corner, there was Evans, looking across at him with blank tired eyes.

“Evans,” Tom greeted and although Evans tried to remain impassive his lips twitched slightly as if he was fighting back a smile.

“Riddle,” Evans responded, his voice hoarse. Tom’s eyes drifted over to Evans’ hands, shaking and twitching, covered in small fine cuts.

“Did you light the town on fire?” Evans asked, and it was as if they were talking about the weather or their latest Potions’ assignment. Like there was nothing at all strange about this reunion or the fact that Tom came back for him and somehow found him without even knowing where he had gone.

Like Evans had also somehow felt Tom’s soul growing closer with each step.

So Tom answered just as nonchalantly, “It seemed appropriate.”

Neither mention that it was best that they leave soon. Instead they just stare, looking across at each other, or in Evans' case staring blindly into his general direction given his lack of glasses.

Evans glanced at those around him, his expression mournful but also beyond exhaustion, finally he said, “I don’t think any of them would make it if they came with us… I lasted the best, out of all of us.”

Tom didn’t say that he hadn’t offered to help them escape anyways, Evans probably knew that if he wanted these people freed he would have had to do it himself.

He only stepped in, stepping over the silent groaning bodies, wrapped his arm under Evans’ shoulders and lifted him up so that Evans was leaning against him. Evans flinched for a moment, then settled, using Tom as a crutch as Tom walked them silently out of the building.

(That was how the war really started, for both of them, walking shoulder to shoulder quietly into the night as dark fire raged behind them.)  


	8. Chapter 8

 “ _There exists no separation between gods and men; one blends softly casual into the other_ ”

\- Dune Messiah, Frank Herbert

* * *

 When Tom cut his soul in half the sleeping Evans didn’t even flinch.

* * *

The diary, set to the side, casually flipped open somewhere in the middle, such an ordinary innocuous object. The sound and smell of the sea, the tide, coming in and out in constant intervals causing, chilling the air of the cave. And then Evans, lying a small distance away with Tom’s pack as a make-shift pillow, looking like death itself.

It had been hard to tell, in the fire, and in the dark, but now when the adrenaline had faded and the screams of Germans burning alive had been left far behind he’d had time to look at Evans properly. It could be worse, he supposed, Evans could be bleeding again, as he had been when they’d first found shelter. Whatever the Germans had done had removed his ability to clot blood, and those small scrapes all over his body could very well have been the death of him if Tom hadn’t managed to reverse the effects.

Considering everything, Evans was actually doing fairly well. It could, after all, have been much worse.

The wards Tom had set glowed softly, and the small fire continued to burn, fed by magic now rather than wood.

And as Tom had predicted the adrenaline had faded but instead of returning to that state of exhaustion and terror he felt… Not empty but close, almost serene, as if nothing seemed to reach him and everything was simply a shadow passing through.

He didn’t feel…

Well, it just wasn’t what he had expected it to feel like. Tom had never had much respect for his soul, he considered it to be something like an appendix, it was there but it didn’t really serve a purpose. After all, as little respect as Tom had for muggles he’d concede that it was the brain, like the muggles believed, that made you who you are. The soul… Well, what was a soul anyway?

He didn’t believe in God, he never had, and if he’d had any flicker of doubt it’d been extinguished long ago by the local preacher and the protestant Mrs. Cole and her talk of devil children.

What was the worth of a soul if there was no afterlife?

He picked up the diary, in his hands he could feel it humming, vibrating with wards, dark magic, and Tom’s own soul trapped inside. And yet, flipping through… just a notebook. The only thing that had changed was that Tom’s words had disappeared, all his entries gone, and the contents left blank.

Evans’ eyelids fluttered, for the first time in almost two days, and he twitched. Tom carefully put the diary back into his clothing, feeling it against his skin, cold and yet somehow hot in the same instant.

He’d have to figure out what to do with it, where it would be remain safe and hidden, until then he’d just have to keep it with him.

“Evans?” He asked and Evans groaned, trying to sit up, and then failing pathetically. He was pale, the bruises he’d collected now a sickly green instead of black, and he looked thoroughly disoriented.

“…I can’t see anything.” His voice was small, uncertain.

“It’s dark, and they took your glasses… We should fix your eyes.” The lighting wasn’t great, it was soft, dim, from the fire and from a few spells Tom had cast. With a thought Tom increased the intensity of the light but judging by how Evans was blinking it did little to help.

“Oh… You can do that?”

“Didn’t you ever wonder why you were the only nearsighted student in the school?” And judging by Evans expression he never had, because he’d never been one to sit down and think logically like that, about how statistically unlikely it was that there were so few nearsighted wizards.

“Right… Yeah, then, I guess we should do that… It’ll be weird, not having glasses.”

“You’ll look better; those things would be hideous on an elderly woman.” Tom said, almost reflexively, and immediately regretted it when silence pervaded the cavern.

Because the glasses weren’t just glasses, in some ways they were more reminiscent of who Evans had been than his now lost wand, losing those glasses and the necessity of those glasses would be admitting that they could never go back to what they were.

But, they couldn’t, and there was no real use pretending.

For a moment he simply stared at Evans while Evans looked in Tom’s general direction and everything they could say passing between them. Tom told him what it was like to kill people, not just one man, but dozens, and how it hadn’t felt any different. Evans asked him why he’d come back for him and perhaps even thanked him for it. Tom told him that he’d split his soul in half, that he didn’t feel any different afterwards, no more or less mortal or human than before. Evans said…

“It’s cold.”

Tom shook himself out of his thoughts, blinked, refocused on Evans, “What?”

“It’s cold, is it just me or…” Evans clutched at the clothing Tom had thrown over him, the stained and practically ruined Hogwarts robes, which Tom had been too tired and thoughtless to charm with a heating spell.

With a flick of his wand and muttered syllables Tom fixed that error and watched as Evans relaxed slightly beneath the fabric. Then he did the same for himself, he hadn’t even realized how cold it was before then, even with the fire.

“We’re inside of a cave near the ocean, it’s fairly cold, but it’s hidden.” It was the first place Tom had thought of, limping away from the fires and Evans almost collapsing on top of him, a place where no wizard would ever think to look.

“Oh…” Evans said, trailing off into some unspoken question, of why Tom would choose to come here of all places.

“The orphanage, when I was younger we would take excursions to the beach, if you’re careful and you’re looking in the right places you can climb into the entrance of this cave without being crushed by the tides.” That had been before he’d met Albus Dumbledore, before the incident with Dennis and Amy had even occurred, before he’d had any true idea of what he was.

Evans was just staring in his general direction, a new expression on his face, one Tom hadn’t seen before from him. It wasn’t the usual anger, affront, hatred, but instead something fragile and uncertain.

“You can’t imagine me at the beach?” Tom guessed, a wry tone to the words but Evans didn’t flush and protest, instead he just kept staring.

“No.” Evans finally said, shaking his head slightly, “I can’t… I can’t picture you at the beach and I can’t… I can’t picture you coming back for me either. It’s like I’m dreaming again… Or they finally killed me.”

Tom stood, trying to ignore the way Evans flinched at the sound, and walked over to Evans and sitting down next to him not quite touching but close, “I am a real person, Evans. I go to the beach, I study, I starve, I slaughter Germans, and I come back for you.”

And there it finally was, that question Tom knew Evans would ask, “Why? Why would you come back? You only care about yourself, about your own survival, why would you ever put that at risk just to come back for me?”

Slowly, with slight hesitation as even Tom questioned what he was doing, Tom lifted Evans’ hand and threaded his fingers through Tom’s, “I realized that my life was meaningless if I was only focused on surviving. In a way, it wasn’t about you, it was about me.”

He paused, squeezed Evans’ hand gently, and offered Evans a grim and ironic smile, “Our fates are tied together, Harry Evans, you’re the only one now who knows what I could have been… By saving you, that memory, I’m saving myself.”

“…That is such bullshit.” And the mood was summarily ruined, Tom dropped Evans’ hand promptly and sighed, barely awake after having been tortured by Germans and Evans still insisted on bickering.

“But it’s poetic bullshit.” Tom said, standing, feeling his back crack and wondering if he shouldn’t start scouring for food, maybe even attempt to fish. Merlin, a wizard fishing, it was almost embarrassing…

“And it’s Potter, dammit!”

Tom didn’t say anything, Evans had a terrible habit of trying to repeat obnoxious conversations, one Tom had hoped would have faded with his exhaustion and capture by the Germans. Instead he was trying to think of just what to do with the horcrux and whether he really was going to swallow his pride and try to fish.

Maybe it wasn’t about swallowing his pride, he was doing as well as could be expected given the circumstances, it might in that sense be more pathetic if he refused to provide for himself. After all, someone who would rather starve than get their own food was surely more worthy of embarrassment than a wizard who fished.

“So, what are we going to do now?”

Tom stopped, stared down at Evans who was blindly staring back, his eyes narrowed and face determined.

“I imagine you’ll spend some time recovering. I read a lot in the Room of Requirement but that doesn’t exactly make me a healer.” Tom said, although he was fairly proud of his handiwork, especially considering Tom didn’t actually know exactly what they’d done to Evans.

“No, I know that I mean… After, what are we going to do now?”

Hide Tom’s horcrux somewhere, maybe he could bury it, maybe he could simply leave it behind in the cave… defenseless… But Evans was the last person who needed to know about all of that.

“Didn’t you have a suicidal plan to sneak into London and assassinate Grindelwald?” Tom asked and to his surprise Evans flinched at the question, he’d never flinched at anything Tom had said before, it was unnerving.

“…You never liked that plan.”

And since when had Evans ever given a damn about Tom’s opinions? According to Evans there were only two categories for Tom’s opinions, the cowardly and the evil. Tom wasn’t allowed gray areas in Evans’ view, it separated him too much from the Voldemort that Evans had known.

He had always found it trying, frustrating, and in the Chamber when he was falling apart it had been agonizing. That Harry Evans thrust this vision upon him and refused to allow him to be anything else and yet he also refused to allow Tom to fulfil that vision either. He would always stand in the shadow of Voldemort.

Yet now, Evans looking at him, seeing him as both something without morals and yet something he had no familiarity with, Tom almost missed that stubborn insistence.

“No, I didn’t.” Tom said and then sighed feeling all of that exhaustion he’d been holding at bay creeping up on him, “But then, I didn’t seem to have any better ideas either.”

“That doesn’t mean you weren’t… right.” Evans said with a wince before continuing, “If I just rush into London without thinking, without a wand… I might as well just have died in that town.”

With a sigh Tom sat back down, resigning himself to getting nothing done, at least for a little while, “That said, I’ve found I’m not very fond of running towards nothing and away from everything. It’s very disheartening.”

He considered Evans, practically blind, wandless, ill, and thoroughly discouraged and he also considered himself, thinner, a little more practical, and yet a little less frantic than he had been before.

After all, he had a horcrux now, true just one but… One was all you needed, for a short amount of time anyways.

“Perhaps, Evans, there’s some in between.”

“Scotland?”

“Not geographically,” Tom cut in, thoroughly unamused, “London is still suicide, particularly in your condition, but lighting towns on fire is… fun.”

“... Seriously?” Evans asked, looking thoroughly unimpressed by Tom’s sentiment, which really Evans had no room to talk. Evans lived for this sort of thing, well maybe not lighting towns on fire, but charging into battle certainly.

“I’m not opposed to slaughtering Germans and liberating my homeland.” It would certainly make creating horcruxes easier, when he had the time and inclination to make a second one.

“We’re not advertising it like that.” Evans said, pulling himself up to glare at Tom, “But your psychopathic habits aside… Are you trying to say we should start a revolution? By just… attacking towns the Germans have already taken?”

“Well, that, but also destroying supply lines, taking down their wards… Things to that effect.”

Evans’ eyes widened, he regarded Tom, and slowly and uncertainly noted, “You know, we could die doing this… We’re really likely to die doing this.”

Not if you had a horcrux but all the same he understood the meaning, and he offered Evans one of his few genuine smiles, “What’s life without living?”

“…That is the creepiest expression I’ve ever seen you have. And I’ve seen… Nevemind.” Evans stopped himself and then forced himself to grin back at Tom, “I’m in. Let’s kick some Nazi wizard ass!”

It was a truly beautiful moment, one Tom ruined by pointing out that Grindelwald and his followers, despite coming from Germany were in fact, not Nazis.

* * *

They burned the first garrison down again, fiendfyre running rampant through the streets, and through the flames Evans dashed searching for prisoners, wands, and anything of use. Tom had conjured a knife for him, to make a poor replacement for his missing wand, and while Tom provided cover for him there was one German Tom missed.

Evans, without hesitation, slit his throat. When the body fell, he stood over it, stunned, staring at it while the man twitched and spurted blood and finally fell still. Then with Tom tugging on his arm, he forced himself to move again, not even wiping the knife clean.

Tom killed more by the end of it, but somehow it was Evans whose face was streaked with blood and whose hand was shaking, he stared out at the garrison (which at one point had no doubt been a small quaint town) and he looked at it as if he had only just realized he was in the bowels of hell itself.

“Evans,” Tom called out, Evans didn’t turn, didn’t even seem to have heard him.

“Evans!” Tom repeated loud enough that it jolted Evans out of his thoughts, he looked so pale, his eyes almost seemed to burn in his face, “We need to go, I grabbed a few wands for you to try.”

“…Right.”

(Evans never asked if he still remained a good person after becoming a murderer, even when, after apparating back to the cave, he vomited into the ocean hoping that the noise would mean that Tom couldn’t hear.

He never said a word, simply hunched over himself, staring into the waves, staring blankly at his own bile slipping away into the sea. Like he’d never even been ill in the first place.)

* * *

Oak, nine inches, thin and spidery. A swish, a flick, nothing.

“Next.”

Tom reached for the next, tossed to Evans’ open hand, where he caught it without even looking.

Hawthorne, ten inches, thicker with a more ornate handle, A swish, a flick, nothing.

“Next.”

Tom reached for the next.

* * *

Civilians slowly but surely crawled their way out of their hiding places, returned to what was left of wizarding towns in the country, and with them Evans and Tom returned to. Sitting in pubs and keeping half an ear open for anything of interest.

It turned out, if you talked to the right people, you could learn just about anything.

“Why do you always flirt like that, with the waitresses?” Evans asked, sipping at a pint of butter beer, green eyes cutting through the crowd to where the blonde waitress now talked with a flushed German.

He couldn’t have been too much older than Tom and Evans, barely graduated from Durmstang, what a different world that must be, to be on the other side of the war.

“Sometimes the waitresses hear interesting things. Privates like to brag when they’re drunk.” Tom replied, “Unless you’d rather flirt with the waitresses?”

“I don’t like toying with people like that.”

Tom simply smiled back, picking up his glass, saluting Evans for a silent toast.

To war, to death, and to gathering intelligence.

Evans never would be any good at gathering information. He was far too noble for that Slytherin sort of business, he’d stay in the front, in the battle, the backroom belonged to Tom and Tom alone.

It worked out better that way.

* * *

Evans always managed to collect more wounds than Tom did, courtesy of being first in to any fight. Still, it was probably better that way, whenever Tom was the one hit by a curse, it always too Evans ages to fix it.

Still, Tom was getting rather tired of healing spells and the fact that he was becoming obnoxiously good at them.

* * *

Supply lines in wizarding wars were tricky things, they relied upon portkeys and apparition. To destroy a wizarding supply line you had to destroy the supplies.

In the cave, lined up against a wall, on a make shift shelf that Evans had erected while Tom had been putting information together and deciding the next target, were no less than five stolen portkeys all whose passcodes had been too easily cracked.

Cedar, nine inches, engraved with runes for power and vitality. Nothing.

“Next.”

* * *

“Why is your wanted poster more terrifying than mine?”

Three garrisons, two outposts, and three months later Tom and Evans had managed to be enough of a nuisance to garner attention from the occupied government. It turned out Grindelwald hadn’t massacred all of England, just most of it, and after a few months of rape and pillage the country was putting itself together once again.

Enough that Hogwarts had reopened (with a smaller class and a less intensive curriculum), the streets were no longer lined with bodies (although the gutters still would run red with blood if you looked carefully enough), and life appeared to be moving on more or less as normal if the streets weren’t crawling with German wizards.

Regardless, the country had improved enough that they apparently had the ability to make wanted posters, and there they were, both of them nameless, given cheap pseudonyms but with accurate enough portraits.

They weren’t bad, Tom looked fairly intimidating, his eyes pale and narrowed and sharp like the edge of a blade. However, Evans… He looked like a demon.

“Shouldn’t you be worried about the fact that we have wanted posters?” Evans asked, ripping one off to look at his poster.

“There’s no such thing as bad publicity in a guerilla revolutionary movement.” Tom quipped before returning his attention to Evans’ poster, “They drew you covered in blood… You look like you could give housewives heart attacks.”

“To be fair, I usually do end up covered in blood.” Evans said, which was true, but not indicative of Evans willingness to kill his opponent. If anything, the fact that Evans often resorted to the severing charm, rather than the killing curse, should have made him appear soft. After all, it was the worst, darkest, of wizards who used the unforgivable.  

Added to this was the fact that his borrowed wands malfunctioned at least once a day, to the point where he had to abandon them for muggle weapons like steel pipes and butcher knives.

Tom just turned away, ripping his own poster off the wall, staring at it in irritation, “They don’t even call me Voldemort!”

“… I have nothing to say about that.” Evans said, with all the serenity of a monk that he just didn’t deserve to have, not when a few months before he’d probably kill Tom for saying that.

“Next time I’m going to paint it in blood on their bloody walls and then they’ll see whose bloody terrifying…” Tom muttered as they walked away, posters in hand.

* * *

 “Abraxas?”

Tom made it a point to never interrogate in the cave, their unofficial headquarters, although whether it could be called headquarters given that there were only two of them… The important thing was that the German rumors had it that there were more, that they were a movement, rather than two lone rebels.

It would be hard to believe otherwise that two mudbloods had the magical power capable enough for the magic they performed.

Instead Tom rotated dark little forgotten rooms in garrisons he and Harry had already reclaimed, dark scorched things, with newly installed electric lights dangling from metal strings. As the war went on Tom found himself becoming nauseatingly muggle when it came to these things.

There was something so satisfying though, in a metal chair, ropes, a dangling electric light casting shadows in a small dark room, that Tom just couldn’t deny.

Tom had picked a young man at random, one who’d wandered a little too far from his patrol, with a bit too little caution. Someone, it looked like, no one would really miss. It was doubtful he knew anything interesting but then Tom had a way of making these excursions profitable.

Only in this bad lighting, up close, did Tom recognize that long silver hair and fine aristocratic features, “Abraxas Malfoy?”

Abraxas Malfoy blinked into awareness, eyes dark with fear, hands grasping in panic for the wand Tom had long since taken off of him (another one for Evans to try later), not that it really mattered since Malfoy had been tied to a chair.

“I would have thought you’d be in America.” Tom said, not sure what he was feeling, except that it might have been delight. He was actually rather happy to see a familiar face, even, no especially when it was one in enemy clothing.

He’d never liked Abraxas, Abraxas had always dismissed him, it would be nice to remind Malfoy that the tables had turned and nothing worked the way it used to.

Finally, Malfoy seemed to piece two and two together, and recognized him, “Riddle?”

“I’m actually trying to go by Voldemort.” Tom replied, which was true, and irritated Evans to no end but pseudonyms were convenient in the revolutionary vigilante business. “But yes, you see, I didn’t have the option of running to America.”

“What are you…” Tom pressed his wand under Malfoy’s chin, into the tense muscles of his neck.

“I ask the questions, Malfoy.”

Malfoy silently swallowed.

“Now, I’ll pick up on your train of thought, what’s a pretty aristocratic man like you doing in a dismal place like this?” Tom said, grinning, and just loving the way that Malfoy shook in terror.

He’d never been afraid of Tom Riddle, but as Tom had once predicted, he was absolutely terrified of the dark lord Voldemort.

“I… After Hogwarts I… I enlisted and… And why aren’t you just using veritiserum?”

Tom’s eyebrows raised, “Do you really think someone like you is worth truth serum?”

They always asked that, even the lowliest of soldiers, as if the ingredients just grew on tress and the potion was the easiest and least time consuming thing in the world to brew.

Malfoy opened his mouth to answer but Tom cut him off, “Don’t answer, that was a rhetorical question.”

Tom pressed the wand a little harder into his throat, Malfoy remained silent and closed his mouth.

“I suppose I’ll get to the point. I’m looking for prisoner of war camps. I’ve heard that Grindelwald summarily executed all of the aurors but… That’s a lot of people to get rid of, a lot of wasted talent if you catch my drift, so I’m betting there’s a prison somewhere. Perhaps Azkaban itself, where you keep all these thorns in your side.”

“Why would I…”

“I ask the questions.”

Malfoy’s eyes never left Tom’s wand, “They take them to Azkaban… but sometimes, they hold them at other towns, when Azkaban’s full or they want to interrogate them first.”

While Malfoy talked Tom looked in his eyes, past the color and deeper, digging through Malfoy’s mind for all those specific details he seemed so hesitant to say. The idea of places, locations, names became clearer and before Malfoy could protest Tom withdrew into his own mind.

Evans would be happy, one of the first things he’d wanted to do, aside from driving out the Germans, was to free English prisoners and gain future recruits. All the killing, cutting off supply lines, destroying already destroyed towns, it wasn’t Evans’ style even if it was Tom’s.

“Is… Is that all?”

Tom looked up to stare at Malfoy. He looked so pitifully hopeful, his eyes shining in the light, hardly daring to breathe…

“I’m afraid the night is young, Abraxas.”

(Later, when he returned to the cave, caught Evans practicing with a stolen knife, practically dancing in the firelight, he tossed Malfoy’s wand to him. There was no explanation of where it had come from, or where Tom’s information had come from, just a swish and a flick, then nothing at all.)

* * *

It was early fall when they acted on Malfoy’s words.

Azkaban, as it turned out, while built as a fortress relied too heavily on the defense of dementors to be truly formidable. Borrowing Tom’s wand, casting a patronus, beneath the bright blinding light of Evans’ stag there didn’t seem to be any shadows left in the place.

Later, when those imprisoned came stumbling out, they wept at the very sight of him.

It was a trend that Evans would never grow comfortable with.

Although, afterwards, when you were led by a savior the likes of which the world hadn’t seen since Joan of Arc, recruiting became much easier.

* * *

“We’ll keep the cave, for us, it’s not big enough for everyone now.” Evans said, not mentioning that it was Tom’s cave to begin with, never really intended for others.

There were too many signs of life, private little things collected over the year that showed they’d lived there for too long. And the new recruits had shown, in how they treated Evans and even in how they treated Tom, that they weren’t allowed to be human.

They must be symbols, leaders, before they were ever allowed to be human.

“Sometimes I miss the days when my greatest concern was what I was going to get on my NEWTs.” Tom said with a sigh.

“Liar, you were never concerned about that.” Evans smiled, and like so many things, this was a conversation they’d keep to themselves and this place, outside of the sight of the vagabond revolutionaries they’d been collecting along the way.

* * *

 A year passed, they reclaimed a quarter of the island, and out of nowhere another familiar face returned.

Unfortunately, Tom didn’t have an excuse to quietly dispose of this one.

“Minerva!” Evans called, wrapping his arms around her, and twirling her about.

Dark haired, wild eyed, thinner than she had been in Hogwarts but still as tall, Minerva McGonagall stood like a proud brave and there was absolutely nothing Tom could say about it.


	9. Chapter 9

“ _I wanted only to look back and say: ‘There! There’s an existence which couldn’t hold me. See! I vanish! No restraint or net of human devising can trap me ever again. I renounce my religion! This glorious instant is mine! I’m free!_ ”

\- Dune Messiah, Frank Herbert

* * *

It wasn’t that Tom didn’t miss Hogwarts, that he didn’t miss naïve youth, his own ambitions and dreams, and even the smaller things like the way sunlight would stream through the windows and the smell of old leather from the books in the library. There were days he almost ached for Hogwarts, for its nostalgic memory, and would cling to it as he passed from dreaming into reality.

(His soul, the notebook, would often sketch out the great hall, the library, or the Slytherin common room in painstaking detail, in the ink and blood that had been splattered across its pages every now and then. And Tom would open it, quietly out of sight of any of the others, and would feel such a disquieted longing and sense of trepidation.

Horcruxes had proven far more unnerving than Tom had been led to believe.)

However, he also didn’t like deluding himself, and he would admit that there were many things he had not missed about Hogwarts.

For one, he hadn’t missed being a minor, being stuck in that blasted muggle orphanage, having to wait every single goddamn year for that seventeenth birthday that would finally bring him true freedom. Even with war, blood, and death everywhere he wouldn’t trade his new existence for that old, endless, bitter waiting.

The other thing he hadn’t missed, more intrinsic to Hogwarts itself rather than Tom’s own age, were the people.

He had tolerated them, at best, when he was inside the walls. He’d tolerated the Blacks, the Malfoys, the Goyles, the Browns, the Potters, the mudbloods, and everyone in between. But it’d been that, it’d been toleration, and even then, that bitter toleration had provided fuel for the dream of Voldemort. Voldemort, that great, looming, tyrant that would devour them all one day, so perhaps it wasn’t tolerance at all.

Perhaps that too had simply been him biding his time.

He’d enjoyed killing Malfoy, cutting off his head and placing it on a pike in the middle of a field for the new German authorities to find, he wouldn’t deny it. Hadn’t, even, when he had offhandedly informed Evans of Malfoy’s gruesome fate, and it said something about Evans that he couldn’t seem to find it in himself to be surprised at Tom’s blunt honesty. He also wouldn’t deny that if he did run across any of his old classmates again he’d probably enjoy killing them too. Particularly those that had been in his own house.

Being terrifying was wonderful, he loved every second of it.

He was not loving every second of this.  

“Isn’t this great? It’s almost like old times.” Evans was grinning like an idiot, still grinning like an idiot, he’d been this way for a week.

Ever since Minerva McGonagall, Tom’s old academic Gryffindor rival, appeared from the Scottish ether, Harry Evans’ spirits had never been higher. And, perhaps consequently, Tom couldn’t remember having been this aggravated in the past year.

Even starving, covered in blood, sleep deprived, with only Evans and his sycophants for true company, he hadn’t felt this… annoyed.

It really was just like old times.

He and Evans were finally alone (and Merlin only knew how little time either of them got to themselves anymore), apparated to the cave by the sea after having planned, rallied, recruited, and done everything in between. True, this was more efficient, more powerful, perhaps even powerful enough to truly take back the country, but Tom couldn’t help but miss when it was just him and Evans. Evans the meat shield, Tom the planner, it had worked for them back in those old days.

Now they had to deal with hero worshipping idiots, staring up at Evans like he was Jesus incarnate, and training them, feeding them, directing them, keeping them alive, and it was just so many more logistics than it used to be.

And even Evans, who didn’t have to deal with those logistics (having pushed all the issues of numbers, accounting, weaponry, food, transportation, onto Tom) seemed exhausted by it. Evans constantly having to put on this persona of a great warrior and hero, always the first into battle and always the last out no matter his malfunctioning wands or the fact that every German’s eyes were on him, hating every bloody moment of it.

Truth was, they were both tired.

Or, at least, they had been until Minerva McGonagall had shown up.

“I wonder who else is alive… I mean, Malfoy… was I guess.” Evans’ face fell at that, wincing, but then pulled himself out of this momentary depression, “But if McGonagall’s alive, I wonder who else is.”

Who cared.

Tom gritted his teeth, wishing that he at least had something to work on so that he wouldn’t just be sitting here looking like an idiot, but this was about the last thing he really wanted to talk about.

“You know, when the war’s over, we really can retake Hogwarts. I mean, I always knew we would but now… It’s like I can just see everything and… I’m just so happy to see someone, familiar, I guess. Do you feel that way?”

No, no he did not.

Tom spared Evans a withering glance, saying nothing, and then resumed staring blankly ahead at the wall of the cave. The wall understood Tom’s pain.

“What is your problem?”

Tom sighed, or attempted to, he was too tense to truly sigh and instead it was this harsh breathing out through gritted teeth, “I don’t have a problem.”

“I thought you liked McGonagall, seriously, what is your deal?”

“I have neither deals nor problems.” Tom said concisely, at least no deals or problems aside from the usual overwhelming assortment of deals and problems. And now the wonderful Minerva McGonagall, who had been slightly more tolerable than anyone else in Hogwarts, but only slightly.

“You only have deals and problems,” Evans replied back with far more venom than he deserved, “It’s the reason you’re such a mess, so, what’s wrong with Minerva?”

That, that was what was wrong with McGonagall. Harry Evans had barely known her, had practically stalked her for no reason, and just her showing up was enough to brighten his day. Whereas Tom, it had taken him setting a town on fire and more for Harry Evans to even talk to him without insults.

“It’s hardly cause for celebration,” Tom said instead, turning his head to stare at Evans pointedly, “We still have work to do,”

“What’s that supposed to…”

Tom cut him off, “We have troops, followers, excellent. We have land, a quarter of the island, wonderful. Tell me, Evans, what precisely are we planning on doing with them?”

“Well, lead them…”

“Into what? I am not a general, Evans,” Tom said, motioning to himself, “Neither are you for that matter. Guerilla warfare, oh we are very good at that, but soon we will need to transfer into true warfare. If we do not take a stand, if we keep hiding in the shadows, we will never retake the country.”

Tom stood then scoffing, throwing his hands into the air as he paced and talked, “We’ve lead these men for half a year now, Evans. Half a year after Azkaban, we’ve fed them, supplied them with shoes, trained them, and what have we gotten from it?”

“We’ve gotten back Scotland…”

“Half of Scotland, Evans, half! Not Hogwarts either, but small magical villages and garrisons of no true import. And only because we took out the garrisons and all the replacements from England. And only because you and I have somehow maintained the illusion that we can be everywhere at once! We do not have the people to staff them, we do not have an army, and Scotland is by no means all Great Britain. We cannot continue this slow, crawling march, waiting for the guillotine to fall onto our necks, when he does send the army, the elite wizards, to deal with us. It’s time to start changing directions,”

Evans stared a moment, then said almost slowly, “Well, isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black…”

“That was a year ago, we were starving, alone, and you wanted to raid London by yourself. Now, we’ve found ourselves leaders of a revolution, Grindelwald has started to pay true attention, all the underlings he’s sent our way have been disposed of. We aren’t even a pair of overambitious terrorists anymore, Evans. If we do not move, if we do not make a stand, he will eliminate us.”

Evans didn’t say anything at first, just stared at Tom, and then offered him a small and self-deprecating smile, “… You know, Riddle, every once in a while, I wonder why I’m still here. I mean, my grandfather’s probably dead, right? And even if he wasn’t I don’t think my dad would have the same upbringing so… How am I still here?”  

Evans took a breath, “I know, it’s not the same thing but… They look up to me so much, we’re asked to do so much, and I shouldn’t even exist anymore,”

And he did, every once in a while, have a strange aura surrounding him, this shade of something off, like he shouldn’t be here and yet he was. They never saw it though, not even Minerva McGonagall, as she’d been embraced by him, had seemed to see it.

But all he could say was, “I’ll keep thinking,”

* * *

“Merlin, Riddle, why is it so hard to talk with you?”

Riddle, there were now two people left in all the world who would comfortably call him that, and only one of them had earned it.

“Because I’m very busy,”

Tom didn’t even look up, merely kept sifting through intelligence reports from all over the country, searching for troop movements, new supply lines, anything and everything in between. There was a period where they had declined, where German wizards had been nicely settled throughout the country, but once again they were on the rise, larger groups of reinforcements were being sent to the forts in Scotland, to take them back from the rebels… And so far, Tom and Evans had beaten them back each time but… But they had not pressed forward since then, even though Grindelwald had not beaten them back, they had yet to press forward.

They’d found themselves in an endless game of sorts, one that Tom wasn’t sure how to win, or what winning even truly meant.

Clearly it wasn’t winning men, they’d done that, and clearly it wasn’t liberating towns. Funny, they kept doing that, and the same towns kept turning back to the Germans, to the aurors and protection and law they provided, and then Tom would have to go back and remind them how terrible of an idea this truly was.

As Evans had once bleakly remarked, all the brave men among them had long since died, there were no lions left in Britain.

Perhaps it wouldn’t even be winning London itself or Hogwarts, the crown jewels of magical Britain.

Was it assassination? Was killing Grindelwald the only way? Then what of his right-hand men, they too would have to be eliminated, and perhaps a good chunk of their underlings. With every second that passed their task grew more daunting, those who would stand with them were executed, and those who had betrayed them were given even more reason to stay with Grindelwald.

They weren’t winning, they were a pestilence, a known pestilence, a known rebellion, and perhaps on the verge of being a revolution, but they were not winning, they were slowing down inch by inch…

“Was there something you needed?”

McGonagall didn’t say anything, just took a seat across from him, then said, “I didn’t see you, in Hogwarts I mean,”

Strange, how long had it been since he’d thought on that day? Occasionally it would slip into his thoughts or nightmares but it always seemed… surreal. As if it hadn’t truly happened to him, as if, until that day he’d come for Evans in the village, he’d been dreaming.

“I dragged Evans into hiding,” Tom said rather bluntly and simply, “We then made our way through Hogsmede then out into Scotland,”

She nodded slowly, carefully, “I thought that might have been it… That’s not what happened to me, you know.”

He didn’t ask what had happened to her, but it seemed she was determined to tell him anyways.

She’d always been like that, more or less, talking to him as if his silence meant her conversation was welcome. Of course, he always thought that it could have been because she had so little thought provoking conversations from anyone else, talking to Tom must have been a breath of fresh air after living with Gryffindors, “I’m pureblood, you know, so they kept all of us alive, the ones whose families they recognized anyways, or at least, those of us who were lucky. Sent us to London for a while, kept us locked up in the Ministry, and sometimes people would disappear if their relatives hadn’t cooperated, then… Then they offered us a place back at Hogwarts to finish our year. Only, there weren’t very many of us left by that point.”

Tom stopped looking at his papers, looked up to stare at her, and at once he realized that he was supposed to be pitying her or at the very least feeling sympathetic. This was her tragic past, the one she had overcome, throwing all that education and safety away to go join the revolution.

And she wanted him to feel sympathetic, how adorable.

He didn’t even have to say it, her eyes narrowed, and suddenly she spat, “You know, I just spent three days out with those men and women, and talking to them you would think that you and Evans were gods! And you were always such a smarmy ass, funny, isn’t it, how much people don’t change?”

Evans had once said the same thing to him, only, Evans had known exactly what it meant to say that.

“McGonagall, did you really argue your way in here for this?”

She paled, stopped, started again, “Look, Riddle, I’m sorry. I just… I didn’t think I’d see either of you again. I know I’ve wanted to talk about it for a while, thought you’d feel the same.”

Good lord, her and Evans were a pair.

Tom sighed, abandoned his work mentally, and said, “Listen, McGonagall, I am… I was never as sympathetic or as nice as I appeared in Hogwarts. In a way, this war has been… liberating, for me.”

Giving her a thin smile he continued, “If you wish to wax nostalgia with someone, over the glory of Hogwarts and quidditch, then it would be best you talk to Evans. If you can somehow manage to make it past his worshiping mob, that is. Otherwise… There are days when I miss it, but I find I’m not much of a nostalgic person. I don’t find it useful,”

Then, with more irritation than he would have liked, Evans and his constant rambling on of the greatness of Hogwarts playing in his head, he turned back to his work and spat out, “Because while you remember the good old days of NEWTs and OWLs and being the Gryffindor chaser or whatever it is you are, I have to sit here, and figure out just what we’re going to do next and more what the Germans are going to do next. So, if you don’t mind, I’m a little busy.”

Minerva frowned, crossed her arms, surveying him, then said, “I heard you’re charge of that, intelligence, I mean. I always thought it would be one or the aurors, since there are a few of them here now.”

Yes, well, they hadn’t exactly been functioning after being released from Azkaban. Some were just now getting their wits back together and there were a good portion who were still only useful as cannon fodder (strange, wasn’t it, how dementors removed one’s ability to think critically yet not the battle instinct muscle memory).

And the ones from the villages, well, Harry might have fared well enough (perhaps more prone to illness than he had been before, perhaps dangerously anemic at times but still alive), but many had died within the first days of their rescue and other the first weeks, the ones left would likely never be what they once were.

Which left the schoolboys, those a few years older and a few years younger than Tom, smiling young witches and wizards, halfblooded and the occasional idealistic pureblood and lucky mudblood, who all looked at Tom with such eagerness as they asked what precisely he wanted them to do now when all he wanted was for them to go back to where they came from.

At any rate, Tom had not been eager to hand over the reins, and those who were more with it than others hadn’t been all that eager to take it, despite Tom’s age. They had just… stepped in line and followed these two dark haired Hogwarts dropouts, one without even a permanent or functional wand in his arsenal.  

“They’re not, I’m afraid it’s just me,”

Minerva nodded, still didn’t leave, just kept sitting there looking at him and then, “It suits you, you know, more than being prefect did.”

“I know.”

And wasn’t that ironic? Because he didn’t know what the Tom back then, the Tom before Evans and the chamber and anything, would make of the Tom today. Tom didn’t think he would have displeased, annoyed with Evan’s presence, certainly and perhaps a bit insulted by it but… But there was power here, power and recognition for all that he was, and although he was not an emperor certainly it wouldn’t have been displeasing.

Perhaps some of this showed on his face, or perhaps Minerva McGonagall finally got bored, but either way she offered him a curt nod, and said, “Right, well, I should probably leave then.”

And she did, promptly without another word, and Tom almost rolled his eyes and returned back to his work, diving deep into the realm of intelligence and only sparing the single thought of, “Thank God she’s gone”, as he worked.

Unfortunately, she made a habit of coming back nearly every day, and nothing he did seemed to be able to drive her out.

“Merlin, Evans is something else. Did you know he could fight like that, during school I mean? I never saw any of his duels, really, didn’t pay much attention to him at all. You know, Slytherin and… And I am sorry about that, in retrospect, because we were all Hogwarts students at the end of things.”

Tom offered a vague, hm, not remarking that he was personally acquainted with how good of a duelist Evans had been, before his wand had been stolen and either given to a German or else burned.  

And even then, Evans had found ways to make up for it, perhaps becoming even more terrifying than he had ever been back then.

And as for all being Hogwarts students, well, perhaps there was some point in that, but Tom remembered Hogwarts very clearly at times and that wasn’t how he remembered it going. The divide between Gryffindor and Slytherin had both been vast and insurmountable. And that wasn’t even getting into the divide between mudbloods and purebloods. Hogwarts had made it a point to be divisive.

It was the war that made them all equal.

She then went on to talk about Evans this and Evans that and did you know about this Tom? To which Tom gave short answers as well as the continual plea that she please find something else to do with her time because unlike some people Tom had actual work to do.

Of course, after she left and he once again breathed a sigh of exasperated relief, she returned by the next day, “He’s even worse than you are! At least you just ignore me as much as you do everyone else. Him, he tries talking to me, talks about Hogwarts and everything, and then he’ll just shut down and not talk about anything at all.”

“Well, Evans is prone to emotional whiplash,” Tom had responded blithely, not that this had cut off the ensuing rant.

“It’s like, it’s like he can’t make up his mind!” Minerva shouted.

“He usually can’t,” Tom concurred, thinking back to his own interactions with Evans, “It seems to be chronic.”

But she continued, “Does he want to be friends or not?! Can’t he just, can’t he just make up his mind already?”

And it seemed, as she continued, and she continued to come in, that somehow despite all reason and rationality in the universe, Minerva McGonagall had decided, completely on her own, that she and Tom were friends. More, that Tom not only had time for but also appreciated her constant rants about the ineffability of Harry Evans and how she just didn’t understand him at all.

Even hexing her, throwing her out of the tent and gluing her to a nearby tree, to be gawked at and laughed at by older men (some of whom had been in the same if not worse situations themselves, because Tom was not an easy task master or a patient one), didn’t seem to deter her in the slightest.

And he had no idea what to do about it.

But, he thought to himself going over reports, at the very least this was a problem that was unlikely to get him killed.

* * *

The beginning of endings was often anticlimactic, or perhaps Tom was simply a romantic, and nothing ever lived up to his expectations.

“Evans, sir, there’s someone here to see you, says he knows you from school, says he has important information on the enemy,”

It was one of the younger rebel’s they’d picked up who said this, only perhaps a few years older than Harry and Tom, likely fresh out of Hogwarts when the Germans had breached the school, but somehow seemed younger if only for the way he looked at Evans, his eyes burning like stars and that near worshipful expression on his face.

That always unnerved Tom.

Or perhaps it was because he looked at Tom with the same expression, knowing exactly what Tom did to enemy soldiers they captured (because you couldn’t trust these wasted men and idealistic boys to do it right for you), and knowing exactly how ruthless Tom portrayed himself to be.

They were in one of the half-destroyed villages, one they’d taken early, almost entirely devoid of civilians now. They had fled months ago, pushed out into the German occupied villages for some sense of stability, leaving only those willing to burn their own country to the ground for freedom, behind.

Tom and Evans were expected to haunt this place at least once a day, to devise plans, supply runs, information gathering, anything and everything necessary for the next push north. But more than that, simply to be seen, to reassure both their men and their enemies that Evans and Tom were very much on the front lines and on the lookout for any kind of ambush.

“Really?” Evans asked, and to his credit his eyes did narrow and he frowned as he took this information in, “What’s his name?”

“Says it’s Earnest Smith, sir, was in Hufflepuff.”

Evans spared Tom a glance which Tom silently returned with a small if unenthusiastic nod, that yes, Smith had indeed been a Hufflepuff in their year and Evans probably should have been expected to know him.

Tom, who had made it his business to know all their classmates, certainly knew of him. Vaguely intelligent, pureblooded, family vaguely well off, and far too conceited for the relatively small amount of wealth in his vault. The type who screamed Slytherin but who had made it a strange type of pride to be thrown into Hufflepuff just as his fathers before him had been for generations now.

Certainly, not a person Tom would have seen risking his own neck for a rebellion.

“Well, show him in then, let’s see what he has to say,” Evans said, and as soon as the boy left the rather rundown building Tom and Evans had commandeered as their headquarters in this particular village Evans turned to him and said, “Seems like everyone from Hogwarts is starting to crop back up.”

“Yes, like weeds,” Tom responded, because really, once was happenstance, twice coincidence, but three times…

“Are you still going on about that?”

“You may see old friends and familiar faces, Evans, but just because we knew these people back in the glory days does not mean that we can…”

Tom cut himself off as the boy entered, and indeed, whoever it was at least wore the face of Earnest Smith. Earnest, despite his name, did not have a particularly earnest face. He never had, even back then, but now it was worn and tired and thinner just as all their faces were.

“So, it is true, Evans and Riddle, leading the rebellion underneath the Germans noses,” Smith said, with a smile that also failed entirely to be earnest or even endearing.

“You said you had information for us Smith?” Tom said, entirely too willing to cut the Hogwarts reunion short before it could even truly get started.

“Merlin, you’ve gotten impatient Riddle.”

“War does not favor the patient, Smith, or the earnest,” Tom replied eagerly back, “And intelligence is only as good as it is timely, so you’d best be getting to your point.”

“It’s not that kind of intelligence… It’s… connections. I haven’t spent the last year idle, you know, I’ve been behind enemy lines, making contacts in all the right places…”

“Have you?” Tom asked with a raised eyebrow, because spies in wizarding wars were tricky things, and usually shortly ended up dead or at least, that was what Tom had come to discover. If one were to survive as a double agent they had better be damn good at what they did, and Earnest Smith didn’t seem to have that in him.

“You don’t believe me? Well, believe this, they’re coming here, for this village, Saturday 1200 with thirty men, not the best, not yet, but not inexperienced rookies like they used to throw at you.”

“That’s awfully convenient,” Tom commented, watching as the boy (because this one, despite living in a war, seemed to still be a child compared to Evans or even Tom).

Evans eyes darted to Tom’s darkening, knowing full well what Tom was about to say and while not necessarily approving, doing nothing to stop Tom either as he walked over to Earnest, lifted his chin so he was looking directly into the whites of Tom’s eyes, “You know, if you’re lying, and we all conveniently wind up in the same place at the same time, waiting for this ambush of yours, leaving our other garrisons and villages open, I will have no choice but to gut you.”

“I’m not…"

“If,” Tom said, “I said if…”

Peering into his eyes and into his mind Tom sifted through details, and it was immediately clear he had some practice in occlumency, which meant that Tom could never be entirely certain of what he found. Sifting through the shields and walking through the traps and barriers he found himself sifting memories and instead feeling for that ringing bell of truth in his words.

And it was there, muted, but he believed what he was saying.

However, it wasn’t nearly as clear and unmuddied as Tom would have preferred.

“You, my earnest young friend, are hopelessly convenient,” Tom muttered with a frown, but Evans was already moving past him, shaking the boy’s hand, yammering on about Smith’s contacts and what their identities were (to which Smith said he must protect them at the risk of his own life), and preparing for whatever was coming on Saturday along with whatever he knew about what was coming next.

Evans, always a bit too proactive, fully willing to risk their necks for something that only bared a hint of truth to it.

It always came to Tom to burst that bubble.

“I don’t like this,” they’d finally left, Smith, the others, leaving Harry writing on the table, organizing and reorganizing who to defend on Saturday, who besides Harry and Tom and what formations to choose and what points the Germans were likely to apparate into outside of their wards.

“You don’t like anything,” Evans scoffed, almost fondly, but never the less dismissively enough to well and truly irritate Tom.

“He’s far too convenient for my liking,” Tom continued, “He will stab us in the back at the nearest opportunity, I guarantee it.”

“That’s not very Hufflepuff of him.”

“None of us are truly our houses, Evans, that died with Hogwarts.”

Evans lifted his head, sighing, and holding up his hands in defeat, “What do you want? You’ve been whining about our lack of human intelligence for months. You’ve wanted this, him, since the beginning. And now we have it, what more could you ask for?”

“Something that I’m certain won’t slit our throats in our sleep.”

Evans gives him a rather flat and dull look, “You read his mind, you tell me, was he lying?”

“About this, no, but he’s a mildly talented occlumens, and I couldn’t see everything floating around in his head.”

“Everyone has their secrets these days, and anyone who knows what’s good for them has some talent in occlumency.”

“Except you,” Tom can’t help but point out, because Evans never has quite gotten a handle on it, even after months of practicing, a full year when he’d been in the 90’s even. Sometimes Tom thought Evans was screaming his thoughts at him, not even having to make eye contact for all of Evans’ feelings and worries and hopes and dreams to start pounding inside his head.

“Right, except me, but we all know I’m an idiot,” he sighed, stared Tom directly in the eye, and said, “Is it so difficult to believe that some people really mean what they say?”

“Completely.”

Evans smiles ruefully, as if this was a joke, “Well, then, when he does stab us all in the back, be sure to say, ‘I told you so’ as we’re bleeding out.”

Why was it that Evans never took him seriously?

* * *

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, when left to his own devices, Tom would have truly terrible ideas.

Tom, over the years, really since Evans had arrived, had been forced to acknowledge uncomfortable truths about himself. He had… flaws.

Now, the flaws Evans would point out were not the same that Tom would acknowledge as flaws. Tom had no issue with his own arrogance (which was rather warranted in his opinion), his ruthlessness, his lack of sentimentality and empathy.

But, Tom had a habit of romanticizing things that perhaps didn’t deserve to be romanticized. The basilisk had been that, at the heart of things, a desperate and foolish need to prove himself, to claim his birth right beneath Dumbledore’s nose.

And sometimes, occasionally, he could be impulsive.

Alone by himself, he pulled the horcrux out of his clothing, never having found a convenient or safe place to store it, and stared dully at the worn and now stained cover. The pages though… They were always pristine, though they had been soaked through by blood bone marrow more than once, no those pages were exactly as they’d been that first night, perfectly blank and inviting.

Except when they weren’t… It sketched, not always, but more often than not it sketched out fantastical cities and scenes, sometimes painfully realistic renderings of Hogwarts, of the countryside, and many profiles of Harry Evans (but more than the Evans he knew and had known, but the hypothetical child Evans, the Evans he had once been in 1996 and earlier…)

The book had been brief on horcruxes, Slughorn had been brief on horcruxes, but from what he’d been led to believe… Horcruxes were a memory of you, if that, so while they might be able to recollect, to think beyond this, to emulate humanity so easily… This wasn’t supposed to happen.

And normally he tried to put this out of his thoughts, he had much grander things to focus on after all, but Evans had had his moment of stupidity already, and goddamn if Tom would allow himself his own.

So, alone in the wasted Scottish countryside, in a ruined rural village with Evans sleeping fitfully beside him, Tom spared him a final glance (taking in that exhausted face, even in sleep, and all its painfully familiar features) and using one of the muggle pens he’d conjured for himself (quill and ink having proved tedious in a war even if war had turned Tom almost painfully muggle) he began to write.

Or, rather, his pen hesitated over the page, suddenly not quite sure what to say.

Eventually, licking his lips, he wrote that one question that had been bothering him most of all, without any preamble to it, _“Why do you draw younger versions of him?”_

The picture being drawn, was once again of an eleven year old Harry Evans, hair sticking out at odd angles like black feathers, eyes magnified behind coke bottle glasses, wearing strange unflattering clothing that were far too large for his thin frame, staring through the window of a storefront in Diagon Alley with a childlike wonder that Tom would never have correlated with the chronically terse and irritable Evans, suddenly stopped forming, the red of his cheeks withdrawing as the blood used for ink returned to the heart of the notebook.

The rest of the picture faded with it, lines collapsing in on themselves and drawing into the center of the binding, out of Tom’s sight.

Finally, a single sentence was written, _“Hello Tom_. _”_

It was his own handwriting, no… Better than his own handwriting, more practiced, with an air of ease and leisure to it that Tom’s handwriting no longer possessed. It was the handwriting he’d had in Hogwarts, when each essay had been a work of art.

There was also something sardonic in that sentence, some darkly amused undertone that wasn’t detectable in the words themselves, or even in the writing, but just the general feeling to the air, like without hearing his words this other Tom had whispered in his ear and all the inflections of human voice had crammed themselves in Tom’s head.

_“I was wondering when you’d break down and write something,”_ it continued, and there was a smile behind these words, Tom’s own cruel and cutting smile, _“You’ve been thinking about it for some time, haven’t you?”_

Curiosity killed the cat, you know.

… That hadn’t been written, and wasn’t something Tom would say to himself, but there it was all the same inside of his head. And suddenly Tom couldn’t help but feel far more unnerved about this than when he’d been talking to Slughorn about horcruxes.

It’d seemed like such a good idea at the time.

Suddenly, Tom found himself absently agreeing, that perhaps seven of these things was far too many.

_“And yet, I think complacency has left far more corpses,”_ Tom finally wrote on the page, and once again there was a pause, all the writing fading.

And then, out of nowhere, appearing far quicker than the other words, _“Touché, that was very clever. But then, we’ve always been clever, haven’t we?”_

The words faded almost before Tom could make them out, suddenly replaced by a new sentence, _“I’m sorry, I’m being rude. It’s just… It’s not really what we expected is it? Me, in here, in this white, endless, potential forever while you get to be out there and… Well, sorry, Tom, but I’m starting to wonder if I didn’t get the raw end of the deal.”_

_“What deal?”_ Tom wrote furiously, gritting his teeth, wondering if he’d ever sounded this… Well, cavalier, brass, obnoxious, it really was like talking to a wittier Evans, like Tom had had Evans’ personality grafted onto him, _“There wasn’t any deal. I split my soul in half to obtain immortality…”_

Words wrote themselves over Tom’s interrupting him, _“There are two halves of the soul involved, Tom, one for you and one for me. Now, I don’t know about you, but I never asked to be the half stuck in a goddamn diary forever!”_

Tom scoffed, _“You are a memory.”_

_“Strange, I don’t particularly feel like a memory,”_ his own soul seethed back at him, words choppier and larger, taking up more space on the page, _“I don’t feel like an impression, a passing thought Tom Riddle once had in an idle daydream. In fact, the way I see it, the only real difference between us is that you have the body and I don’t!”_

Finally, having more than enough, Tom scribbled out furiously, _“Would you rather be dead?”_

The sudden white of the pages, seemed almost auditory, like a deafening silence.

_“Better, for this, than for both of us to meet oblivion,”_ Tom finally wrote, because that was the point of a horcrux, the ultimate bargain, to live forever you had to tear out something of yourself…

After a lengthy pause, the diary wrote back, his handwriting returned to its original pristine state, _“He fascinates me.”_

_“What?”_ Tom scribbled out after blinking at the sentence.

_“Harry Evans, Harry James Potter, he fascinates me.”_ A pause then, _“Don’t you ever wonder about where he come from? What sort of a childhood shapes a man like him, where at the age of fifteen he takes down a basilisk with only his wand, attempted to learn occlumency with the help of someone he hates, has words carved into the back of his hand… Have you borrowed that one yet, for your own prisoners, forced them to carve ‘I must not tell lies’ into their own skin, over, and over, and over again?”_

He’d… No, it hadn’t crossed his mind, only now he couldn’t stop thinking about it, thinking of himself and more, thinking that someone had done that very thing to Evans in a world where Voldemort had been more than an idle fantasy of Tom Riddle…

A picture of Evans appeared, sketched in casually yet accurately, of Evans seated in a dark room, inked shadows cast over his face, eyes wide, a quill in his hand and a sheet in front of him as some dark shadow loomed over him, grinning.

_“It’s a pointless exercise,”_ Tom swiftly wrote over top of Evans’ features, _“I don’t care where Evans came from.”_

_“No,”_ the diary responded rather shortly, _“You just don’t care to confront the might-have-beens and if-onlys, you don’t want to think about the Voldemort he knew, the one you’ll never manage to live up to, and you think anything from Evans’ past will just feed into this.”_

A pause, the picture fading, then, _“If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost call it sad, Tom.”_

_“I have enough things to worry about,”_ Tom responded, which was certainly true enough.

_“Ah, yes, the war… I’ve felt the war, you know, tasted your blood, Evans’, and many many others… I’ve touched their souls, you know, all of their dead and dying souls and they scream at me in foreign languages begging for god or their mothers.”_

Hands are sketched, rising from the bottom of the page, clawing at the white for something, anything, while at the top, staring down into this pit, Tom Riddle is sketched looking down at them with something inexpressible in his eyes.

_“Perhaps that is another reason I sketch Evans, I’ve tasted his soul so many times I almost feel as if it’s my own, and he never begs, never screams, he just… glows, so very very brightly, too brightly to ever last as long as he does.”_

And Tom briefly had the thought that he felt like Evans sometimes lingered in his own head, that they had some unnatural and unknowable connection that Tom could never place and…

_“Too much for you, Tom?”_

Without a word, Tom slammed the notebook shut.

He breathed out shakily, closed his eyes, then opened them and looked back at Evans, who, as Tom had predicted, hadn’t noticed a bloody thing.

* * *

The air was filled with the scent of blood, smoke, and powerful magics. The unmistakable scent of a wizard’s war, the buildings practically saturated with both dark and light magic, sometimes taking to glowing strange colors in the twilight.

Noon on a Saturday, and Earnest Smith’s words had proved prophetic enough, there they were, right on time, thirty men who were not the worst that Tom and Harry had encountered but not the dreaded elite among Grindelwald’s forces.

Enough that Harry and Tom, as well as the men they’d stationed there, easily disposed of the threat.

So, leaning against a wall, watching as the living enemy were stunned, their wands removed, prepped for interrogation with Tom later (of which he was certain he’d get absolutely nothing of interest or worth off of any of them), Tom found himself acknowledging that Smith’s intelligence hadn’t been worthless.

Had, perhaps, been unnervingly accurate.

This did nothing to improve his mood, as noted by those who were with it enough, or had been around long enough, to recognize that one did not prod a sleeping dragon, and when Tom Riddle got a certain look on his face you steered clear.

Of course, Evans had never been counted among those people with a reasonable dose of self-preservation.

Evans wandered up next to him, his clothes torn again, stained again, dark hair practically standing on end, but that smug grin that Tom hated so very much stretched across his lips, “Well, Tom, don’t you have something to say?”

Tom spared him a dull and unamused glance before returning his attention to those captured men, silently setting up a notice-me-not and silencing ward around them, as Evans’ tended to lack finesse with his borrowed wands.

Evans didn’t even blink as he began to goad.

“Come on, Tom, I’ll start you out, it goes a little something like, ‘Harry, I was wrong and…” Evans trailed off, his smile dimming and instead that constant exhausted look taking over his features, “Merlin, the way you’re looking you wanted him to betray us.”

Yes, in some ways that would have been more reassuring, quicker…

Evans didn’t seem interested in whatever Tom thought though, as he scoffed and lightly accused, “I think you just can’t admit that there are still good people out there, even in all of this… This is a good sign, people believe in us, in what we’re fighting for. If there are more people like him, then we really do stand a fighting chance. And I don’t just mean with numbers either. People believe in us, Tom. Aren’t you tired of war?”

“I’m tired of convenience,” Tom said coolly back.  

“You really are a paranoid bastard,” Evans said before sighing, rolling his too green eyes skyward as if Tom was the one being unreasonable, and then asking, “Alright, I’ll indulge you, if he was really out to get us, then wouldn’t he have lied about today? And more, wouldn’t you have picked up on that?”

“He wasn’t lying about today,” Tom replied, knowing Evans would deliberately miss the point.

“I know, which clearly means that…”

“He might be lying about tomorrow,” Tom said, “And if not then, then one day, all he needs is one day…”

For a moment Evans said nothing at all, then, “I don’t want to live in that world, Riddle. I don’t want to live in a world where I’m just waiting for a knife in my back, unable to trust anyone at all. Hell, if I can learn to trust you, trust you with my life, then as far as I’m concerned anyone is redeemable.”

“Good to know I’m still your standard for scum of the earth,” Tom scoffed, wondering, why, after all these years that still stung as much as it did. You’d think he’d get used to Evans’ offhand insults about his morality by now.

“You say that like I don’t know you and I don’t know exactly what you are,” Evans said, and then his eyes seemed through peer through Tom entirely, “After all, I’m the only one who knows what Voldemort was supposed to be.”

“Yes,” Tom said with a sigh, “And what a bittersweet memory that is.”

“For you,” Evans said darkly, “For everyone else… Believe it or not, I still think the world is better off without him. If we win this, when we win this, then I can’t regret that I prevented…”

“My conception?” Tom asked with raised eyebrows.

“Merlin, Riddle, don’t…” Evans shuddered, “That was the wrong word and you know it.”

“And once again, you have no taste for poetry,” Tom said.

“That wasn’t poetry! That was… gross sex words!” Evans said, “I mean, there are a couple things I never want to think about, and your parents snogging and making babies is one of them!”

Yes, strangely enough, Tom actually agreed with him on that point. He’d rather not think about his parents and how Tom had come into existence either.

“Anyways, back to Smith, I think we should trust him, until he really gives us proof otherwise… And not reading his mind every time he looks in your direction either!”

Tom merely grimaced but offered no response.

As if Tom hadn’t seen that complaint coming, no, ever since the thirty men had shown up Tom had known that Evans would become completely unreasonable. Because the truth was that he wanted to believe in the inherent goodness of men, that only a stark few were unquestionably evil and totally irredeemable (Tom, ironically, being among them). Evans was comfortable in a world of black and white, where those who were evil and terrible had few redeeming features, he did not consider the greed and cowardly nature of ordinary men.

Of course, Tom could be wrong, perhaps Earnest Smith truly did mean to help, had somehow managed to get contacts on the other side of the war. Perhaps, as Evans put it, Tom was simply a paranoid bastard unable to see the goodwill of his fellow men flickering inside each of their souls.

Evans stood uncomfortably, perhaps expecting more of an argument, but eventually he caved and said, “Well, at any rate, I’m going to talk to him, see what else he knows. You can…”

“See to the rest of it,” Tom said, motioning to the captured men, to the hours of work he had ahead of him which he knew would likely yield nothing of interest, “I know the drill, Evans.”

“Right, well, later then,” Evans said, slapping Tom on the back with that camaraderie that Tom had always hated so very much. And then he was off, finding and chattering to a grinning Earnest Smith who had just stumbled out from behind a building, leaving Tom behind to stare at him both and wait for the other shoe to drop.

The inherent goodness of mankind, honestly, how Evans could believe in something like that, while also practically calling Tom the antichrist, was patently ridiculous.

“You know, it’s strange how something as horrible as war can change people for the better.”

Tom glanced to him, noting Minerva McGonagall who’d just walked up next to him, looking quite decent for just having emerged victorious from a battle. Didn’t anyone realize that there were certain moods you didn’t dare to talk to Tom in?

Either way, even with him dully glaring at her, she continued.

“I’d never thought Smith would have done something like this, risked everything like this… You for that matter either, I guess there’s more Gryffindor in all of us than I’d ever thought.” She paused, offered Tom a grin, a similar one to what Evans had just offered him not so long ago, “I think you’ve both, you and Smith, have become better people since Hogwarts.”

Watching Evans and Smith walking away, Evans’ arm slung over Smith’s shoulder, Tom felt his eyes narrow and that dark suspicion claw at his mind, and all he could do was listlessly agree, “Yes, I think we’ve both changed.”

* * *

But the successes kept coming, Smith was as good as his earnest word, and suddenly they were making more progress than they had in months, beginning to gain territory once again and head ever closer to London itself.

And with each success Earnest Smith drew closer and closer into Evans’ confidences while Tom’s doubts continued to nag at him relentlessly. Where Evans was reassured, hopeful even, Tom found himself wondering how it was that Smith was so comfortable being seen with Evans. How was he so confident in his own safety? Particularly since it was no secret that Tom would not go too far out of his way to protect him.

This young man who somehow managed to look younger than either Tom or Harry despite being the same age, a certain arrogance in his smile and eyes that just grated against Tom’s nerves every time he saw it, even when Tom peered into his mind time and again and always heard that small but muddied clang of truth to his words.

And every single time his intelligence would pan out and every single time Evans would try to make Tom eat his own words.

As for Smith, well, if Tom was Smith then he wouldn’t be doing nearly the same things. Smith didn’t mind being seen coming or going and while he never revealed his sources he often revealed that he had sources to just about anyone who would listen. And yet, not the slightest flicker of concern that some enemy agent within their own troops would have him eliminated or report back to their German masters.

And as for Tom… Well, it wasn’t anything obvious he could pinpoint, just small observations that built up on one another, feeding into his own unease and yes, perhaps even his paranoia. Because the truth was that Smith had had many opportunities by now, too many opportunities, but each one passed him by to the point where Tom was wondering if he wouldn’t be forced to swallow his pride and concede that Evans had a point.

That perhaps, underneath the greed and mediocrity, there was some inherent nobility to people that Tom simply… lacked.

Where, at the worst of times, they would all band together regardless of Hogwarts houses and sing kumbaya around a fire, talking about what a grand old time they’d had there and wasn’t it wonderful they were all friends now, except for Tom, who had somehow never managed to learn the words and frankly had no desire to… Merlin, somehow it made him ill even thinking about it.

And there were always larger things to be concerned about than Tom’s own rather unique sense of morality, no matter how many times Evans felt it necessary to bring up.

Still, Earnest Smith nagged at him, and in the end, it’d been the diary that had pointed it out.

Sitting on top of a roof, enjoying the few scant minutes he had to himself (having managed to lose McGonagall in some other village and Evans off either inspiring the masses or conspiring with his favorite double agents), the words seemed particularly dark against the white pages of his soul.

_“Isn’t it interesting, how small these victories are?”_

Tom paused, not sure he wanted to indulge whatever abomination his other half had turned into inside of the diary, but in the end scratched out in rather lazy penmanship, _“We’ve gained more territory than we have in months.”_

The diary was rarely flat footed, despite claiming not to have eyes on the physical plane, and Tom always wondered how he dared to feel so confident about situations which were only revealed to him through a rather reluctant Tom. He was though, extremely confident, _“But nothing earth shattering, nothing to turn the tide either. We’re still not doing particularly well, are we? Tell me, where is Grindelwald? Where are the reinforcements?”_

Why is this suddenly so very easy?

Yes, Tom had been wondering that too, as he sat in the bars under disguise, listened to gossip, and pondered their rapid march through the countryside when, months before, when they’d finally been promoted from terrorists to guerilla revolutionaries, the hammer had come down and come down hard upon them.

Where was the hammer now?

And why was it so much more unnerving that the diary was asking after it?

Tom didn’t respond, the words fading back into the diary, but soon enough new words replaced them, oozing that same easy sly confidence that the diary appeared to enjoy so very much, _“The reason we’ve been getting nowhere fast for months is that Grindelwald is better at this than we are, or at the very least has been doing this much longer, with better supplies, with funding, and with more able men. More, he adapts, he changes strategies, when we first started making progress he held us back, kept us contained but now here we are on the move again and… Where is he supposed to be, France?”_

When had the man last been in England? It was a rare event, he spent most of his time on the continent, but eventually Evans and Tom would push him out of hiding… But today was not that day, despite their progress he wasn’t here. And that said something, something that had been nagging at Tom for months now.

Complacency, far more than curiosity, was the rode to stagnation and to death itself. Tom had never once doubted that, and as his eyes rose to the skyline, and he imagined himself staring at the muggle façade of London, he couldn’t help but feel that it was complacency hanging over their necks like a guillotine, ready to drop at the slightest moment.  

And it would only be Tom left standing at the end of it.


	10. Chapter 10

 “ _To use raw power is to make yourself infinitely vulnerable to greater powers_ ” 

-Dune Messiah, Frank Herbert

* * *

"Evans,"

Evans looked up, head bent towards Smith, over a hand drawn map of an outpost, grinning at Tom’s entrance into their latest reclaimed village, and perhaps their most startling victory since they had started all of this. This final outpost containing the portkeys that would lead them to the garrison containing all the great coveted portkeys, those into London, Hogwarts, Dublin, Paris…

The island had been cut off since the invasion, apparition wards all over the country, and only by portkey could one bypass the customs stations littered throughout Great Britain. If they took this next village, if they held it, they had their front door into London itself.

And while the war would not have been won the tide would turn dramatically in their favor.

Or at least, if Earnest Smith and his intelligence were to be believed.

“You’re late,” Evans commented with far too much amusement for the situation, like Tom should feel bad about being anything less than perfection, perhaps when he’d still been a prefect it might have stung, but Tom had learned to let things go during the war… Or perhaps he’d lost that in the chamber.

“I am not late, I’m simply not early,” Tom said before joining them, “And I’m very busy.”

Smith scoffed, “Not sure why, you never seem to turn up anything useful.”

“Are you telling me how to do my job?” Tom asked, and perhaps Smith did have some self-preservation after all because he did pale significantly under Tom’s glare, and he refused to meet his eyes.

“Hey, knock it off, we have work to do,” Evans said, “I’m not in the mood for your mood-swings, Riddle.”

“My mood swings?” Tom asked, wondering if Evans could even be bothered to see the irony in that, but apparently not, as Evans was turning back to Smith.

“Right, well, like I was saying before Riddle…”

Voldemort, really, was it that hard. Why was it that no one ever seemed to call him that? Was it simply that Tom didn’t want them to, deep down, or was it that Evans never took it seriously? Or did Smith just like playing with fire?

“…Interrupted, we really have one shot at this. According to my sources they don’t know we’ve taken this place yet, so we have to act fast before the information leaks out, and more, my sources also say that the forces at our target will be depleted as lord Grindelwald will be making an appearance in London.”

Evans didn’t even blink while Tom was left with the perverse impulse to gape. Surely, Evans couldn’t be believing that.

“And you don’t think, when Grindelwald hears that one of the few garrisons containing military grade portkeys into his cities has been taken by rebels, he’ll sit idly by twiddling his thumbs?” Tom asked, eyes searching for Smith’s but now he was resolutely staring at a wall.

“Not if we’re fast enough,” Smith insisted.

“Yes, and why are you so certain they don’t know we’re at this particular garrison?” Tom asked, “I find it unlikely that no one would have heard, that the wards wouldn’t have been triggered…”

“We took down the wards!” Smith said, “Look, you were the one in charge of that so if you’re doubting anyone then you’re doubting yourself! Besides, if you don’t risk anything you can’t gain anything either.”

Tom opened his mouth but Evans beat him to it, “He’s right, we haven’t lost yet and we’re not going to lose now! Not when we’re this close and not with this opportunity! We can’t lose, if we all believe in it, if we hold strong, we aren’t capable of losing…”

There were no words, nothing at all, all he could do was stand there like an idiot while Evans and Smith finalized the details of who to take, where to approach from, the position of the wards…

Finally, with a far too self-important look on his face Smith left, and it was just Evans and Tom that remained.

“Did you notice, Evans, he didn’t once look me in the eye,” Tom said.

“Oh,” Evans said with vehemence, still turned away from Tom, his knuckles white against the table, “I knew it, I knew you would say something like this, even after everything he’s risked and done for us and…”

“He doesn’t act like a man with the barrel of a gun against his head,” Tom pointed out, “Don’t you find it odd, how it’s only me that seems to make him nervous, when he’s risking everything for us?”

“Maybe because he knows what he’s sacrificing, has accepted it, but he doesn’t have to accept his own people stabbing him in the back…”

“Is that how you see it?” Tom shook his head, “You’re a fool, Evans.”

Tom then looked at the map, “He said to bring everyone, everyone functioning… We’re risking everything for this, for something I have no other reports of, I’m not even sure these portkeys are in this garrison. The portkey we’re taking there, for that matter, could lead us anywhere. I am not comfortable with blind faith, Evans!”

“And what are we supposed to do, Riddle?!” Evans asked, motioning to their surroundings, “We can’t stop now! I can’t stop now! Not when we’ve made it this far with everyone believing in us…”

“In you, Harry,” Tom snapped, “They believe in you.”

And then, it was as if a curtain had been drawn back over his eyes and he saw for the first time what Harry Evans, Harry James Potter, truly was. They shook his hand and theirs trembled, broken men cried at the sight of him as if they had been reborn merely by standing near to him, they whispered that he would be the one to save all of Britain.

And Evans had never once blinked, had taken it all eerily in stride, not like he’d been born to that kind of attention or even truly wanted it but…

“And you believe them,” Tom said, “You believe all those people we picked up, the ones who worship you and think that you can topple empires with your hands tied behind your back, wandless… Don’t you see what they’re turning you into?”

“An idea, Evans,” Tom spat, “That’s what you are! That’s why you have to push and push and believe and never stop and think even when it’s beyond suspicious! Why you have to have such ridiculous faith in humanity and condemn me for even slightly doubting someone’s intentions! You’ve always been too ready to martyr yourself and me along with you…”

Evans scoffed, dark brows lowered and an irritated grimace on his face, “I am not…”

“Yes, you are!” Tom interjected, “For them! But I was there first, your right-hand man in every sense of the word, and I haven’t been wrong yet! And if you listen to this, if you go into this blatant trap blindly because of what you think you have to do…”

Tom started laughing, not sure what even to say, just knowing that Evans wouldn’t listen. He rarely ever listened, not when it came to things like this, it would take Smith murdering them all for Evans to consider listening.

For a moment Evans said nothing, finally, calmer than Evans ever seemed capable of, he said, “You’re more likely to betray me than him.”

His eyes practically burned, and wasn’t it strange, how they looked so similar to how they had years ago in the Chamber of Secrets, even when then they had been hidden behind glasses, “You’ve always been more likely to betray me than him.”

“How is it, that we spend so many years with each other, and you still can’t seem to read me at all?” Tom asked, and then he sighed, suddenly beyond exhausted, and even as he saw the battlefield and the blood before he said, “Fine, Evans, have it your way.”

Lead them all to their glorious deaths, divine light shining around them even as they were all slaughtered down to the man, except for Tom whose soul had already been sheered in half, in preparation for this very moment.

And as Evans lay dying, Tom would smile down, say that he had told him so, right before he plunged one of Evans’ knives straight into the man’s heart. Perhaps then, the bastard would finally listen.

* * *

“So, this is it right?”

Minerva McGonagall had a habit of showing up when she was least wanted. Although to be fair, in these last moments, as Evans gathered all the able rebels they had, all those with most of their wits still intact (which basically meant everyone who wasn’t already at death’s door), there wasn’t any real place that Tom could hide.

Still, all the same, he’d have enjoyed a few more minutes to wish death upon Harry Evans with his eyes alone. Evans, needless to say, hadn’t even bothered to look in Tom’s direction.

That was so very typical of him.

“I mean, this is it, this is the key to everything, right?”

Tom spared Minerva a glance, a dull unimpressed glance, before returning his attention to the horizon.

“So, you’re going to be like that, are you Riddle?” Minerva said before pointing out, “You know, this could be the end, for either of us, is this really how you want to be remembered?”

“Better to be remembered as I am than what I wasn’t,” Tom finally deigned, which seemed to be enough for Minerva as she offered him a triumphant smile. Her face though, it was much thinner than it had been in Hogwarts, her clothes far more worn, so while the expression perhaps bore some familiarity it was fleeting at best.

No one was quite what they once were in Hogwarts.

“You mean like Hogwarts? I don’t know, you weren’t so bad there, best of the Slytherins at least… Do you remember the slug club, how every month we’d have to go to those god-awful parties?” A soft nostalgic smile painted itself on her lips.

“How could I possibly forget?” he asked, “It was the bane of my existence.”

“Oh, but Slughorn loved you and you always encouraged it, you were both trying to get something out of the other one and looking back it was damned hilarious, Riddle.”

“Tedious, I think is the word you’re looking for,” but there was a reluctant smile on his lips, as looking back, he could see easily see that desperate and wasted effort Tom Riddle had put into charming Horace Slughorn.

Although, perhaps not entirely wasted, it’d gotten him a horcrux after all.

“No, no I mean hilarious, he’d just talk for hours in your ear and there’d be you smiling and nodding and probably thinking of bashing your own brains in. Although, I was always glad you sucked up the attention for the rest of us, very considerate of you,” and now she was laughing, and perhaps it was the war and his own exhaustion but dammit he was laughing too.

“Oh, you have no room to talk, you were Dumbledore’s lap dog.”

“Oh, don’t you dare go comparing Dumbledore to Slughorn,” Minerva said, “Although you two always did hate each other, you and Dumbledore I mean.”

“Well, when we first met, he did set my wardrobe on fire,” Tom admitted before dazedly adding, “It left an impression.”

She spluttered, looked at his expression, the quirk of his lips, then barked out a sharp laugh. Eventually though her laughter faded, her smile died, and she said, “I wish we could know what happened to him.”

“Dead, I suppose,” Tom Riddle replied, “It hardly seems to matter now, does it?”

“No, I guess it doesn’t,” Minerva responded distantly, “It should though, it should matter more than anything.”

At once he eyed her, this dark haired Scottish girl caught out of her depth but still plunging ahead almost despite herself, friendless as he was in this place… And at once it struck him, that he didn’t want her to die. Perhaps, perhaps there should be something left of Hogwarts when this is done, and why shouldn’t it be Minerva McGonagall?

Tom wouldn’t mind seeing Minerva live through this.

So, looking her directly in the eyes, taking in her quizzical expression, he said, quietly, “Watch yourself out there.”

She opened her mouth to rebuke him, perhaps to say she was already going to do that because while a Gryffindor she wasn’t a total fool, but he cut her off, eyes darting to the right, where Smith stood chattering to Evans about last minute details.

“We’re walking straight into a trap,” his eyes narrowed on Smith, “I’m certain of it.”

He wasn’t sure what he expected from her, after a moment of silence where she too took in Smith and observed him, but it seemed there was some stupidity that ran through all Gryffindors, because she looked and with a proud indifference replied, “You don’t know it though, not really, and even so… Sometimes, Riddle, you have to walk in even knowing it’s a trap. That’s what bravery is, I think.”

No wonder all the Gryffindors were dead.

He felt his lips twist into a cruel and bitter smile, and, stepping out from beside her and towards Evans he offered only a parting wish of, “Good luck then, Minerva.”

* * *

There was a moment, as the portkeys, the portkeys gained through blood, sweat, tears and Smith’s own information, took hold, a single moment where Smith was neither lying nor speaking the truth, a moment of infinite possibilities where neither Tom nor Evans could truly claim to be right.

Where Smith’s string of successes was weighed against Tom’s own paranoia.

And as they were pulled through time and space Tom allowed himself, for that brief instant, to consider a world where he was wrong, and where this truly was what Evans said it was. There they would win, and London would be freed… And in the end, where would that Evans and Tom be? Rebuilding the government, reopening Hogwarts? A softer world, long after the trials for traitors to the Germans, where the war was an unspoken thing of the past, and Tom could finally rest his eyes for a moment or two…

Would he and Evans be friends then? After this war was over and fate had ceased to throw them together?

Strangely, he imagined they would be, or rather, they would continue to be what they were now, whatever you happened to call that. Brothers in arms, friends, even after the blood of their kinsmen had stopped overflowing in the gutters.

Yes, for that single instant, Tom could almost picture it.

But then, as they appeared in the center of the wizarding village turned military fort, and were met not with a few straggling unprepared men but instead dozens of fully staffed and fully armed wizards of experience and wards flaring to life around them, the image was snuffed out forever in Tom’s mind.

“Everyone get down!” Evans shouted immediately, throwing himself to the ground, and though Tom too dropped it was not quickly enough to miss the sight of spell light and the heads of several of his comrades exploding outward, blood and brains now hitting Tom’s hair and face.

Screams of agony sounded around him, Tom looked up, at the wards, unfamiliar, but judging by the man who had stumbled into them not to be trifled with. Apparation wards too, now those Tom knew the sight of even at a glance.

Evans threw a shield over himself and whoever was nearest to him, it held, for a moment, but appeared to waver.

Everywhere people ran, running straight into the wards, or often over top of one another, and were either taken out then by spells or else incinerated as they crossed over the boundary of the wards.

Time seemed to slow, people stumbled, Tom found himself crawling over severed hands, limbs of people he had known, men he had known and fed and kept alive all this time…

Everywhere was the scent, not only of blood, but of human death and decay, of brain, bone marrow, bile, pus, and all the fluids in the human body that wreaked of illness and death. Tom crawled forward with a singlemindedness, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, time slowing until only the back of Evans head was visible.

(Tom did not intend to die here, Smith intended him to die here like a pig for slaughter, but Tom would not die in this place.)

Around them the wards shimmered, magical energy thrown against it, but they did not buckle. And somewhere in the mass of noise, Evans was screaming, or rather, his soul itself seemed to be screaming, screaming inside of Tom’s head relentlessly as this singular moment painted itself over every death he had ever witnessed.

Where before there had once been a boy in a cemetery, a man in a purple turban being burned alive, a red-headed woman pleading over his cradle, and then the many many deaths they had seen before this, now there was only the blood of this moment, the blood and the screaming and the people running everywhere and a man suddenly next to him is dead and the shields aren’t strong enough…

Someone fell onto Tom’s back, blood soaking through Tom’s clothing, a heady sticky read trickling down past him and onto the ground beneath him. He shook the man off, not even blinking when he noted that the head fell separately, staring up at Tom with the dead eyes of a fish at market, his tongue sticking out of his bloodstained mouth.

Finally, he reached Evans, and with him the two others that Tom had hoped, before, might survive this. There was Smith, crouched beneath Evans and staring up at horrified eyes at the wards surrounding them, shaking like a leaf, and McGonagall, deep gashes in her side, one hand hanging uselessly at her side, putting everything she had into a shield around the three of them as her hazel eyes took in what were to be her final moments.

Yes, none of them should die here, in this place. There were tales yet for all of them and as for Smith, well, as fitting an end as this would be there was something more required from him before he went to meet his maker.

Using his bloodstained hands, he drew all three of them in, and with his equally bloodstained will, that will that saw his own death as inconceivable, he moved past the noise, the death, and the inhumanity that was to be this end, pulling Evans soul along with his, they breached through the apparition ward.

Leaving the rest of the rebellion behind to die.

* * *

“In Flanders field the poppies blow between the crosses, row on row, that mark our place; and in the sky the larks, still bravely singing, fly scare heard amid the guns below…” Tom trailed off at Evans’ approach his footsteps somehow deafening even over the sound of the sea in that lonely abandoned cave of Tom’s childhood. 

Finally, when Harry Evans stood shoulder to shoulder with Tom, a haunted glassy look in his eyes, but he said nothing, simply stared at Tom, a single silent question haunting his eyes, ‘why’.

Tom offered him a bitter smile, but did not answer that, instead he said, “A muggle poem, about World War I, the war to end all other wars… What a thought.”

Harry Evans, Tom Riddle, an injured Minerva McGonagall curled up on her side pale and feverish, practically dead to the world though the bleeding stopped as well as Tom could make it, and Earnest Smith petrified where he stood, the terror written in every cell of his body as he stared forward into the darkness.

“We’re finished,” Evans said then, finally, quietly as if he could scarecely believe the words himself, “He’s won, he’s destroyed us completely, the revolution’s finished.”

“You… You could have gotten them out! You got us out, you made a hole in the wards, why didn’t you get them out?! Some of them out I…”

Evans stopped, looked at Tom again, and perhaps remembered that most of them had died long before Tom had gotten the four of them out, and even then, even then, there was no doubt in Tom’s mind that those apparition wards had been back in place long before anyone with their wits still about them could make use of them.

“You didn’t say, ‘I told you so’!” Evans accused, tears gathering at the corner of his eyes, “You promised you would! Well, aren’t you going to Riddle? Tell me! You were right, you’re always right, and I always… Every single time, every time I mess up everything! It’s not even the first damn time, this is how… I was tricked, into going into the department of mysteries, did you know that? Tricked and I led all of my friends into a trap and I don’t even know if they’re still alive, if they can still be I… Say something dammit!”

Tom said nothing, not in sympathy, pity, or even the belittlement that Evans seemed to need so very badly. Tom had already said his thoughts, before all of this, and with drying blood still on him and a horcrux stuffed under his clothing and strapped to his skin, there seemed to be nothing worth saying.

“You were right,” Evans finally said weakly, “Goddammit, you really were right.”

He sighed, attempted to shove his hands into his pockets, only to keep them out when they realized they had stiffened with the blood and dirt on his own clothing, and closing his eyes he started, “We… We need a plan a… Something now, we need to start over but… Smarter, we need to be smarter and...”

He stopped, gave a hiccupping repressed sob, shook his head, and asked so quietly and in such a frail voice Tom was almost wondering if he was imagining it, “How many more deaths can I possibly be responsible for?”

Tears trickled down his face leaving clear streaks amid the dirt and the blood, and Evans shook his head quietly before whispering, “There was a prophecy, you know, in the department of mysteries. A prophecy about me and you but I… I have no idea what it said. Even after all this I have no bloody idea what it said. And sometimes I wonder if…”

And as he stood there, out into the gray Atlantic sea, the wind blowing back his dark hair, half in the light of the world and half in the darkness of the cave, he seemed almost transparent somehow, as if only half of his, his mere image stood here with Tom Riddle, while the other half stood somewhere outside of the world itself.

Evans looked him the eyes and in them there was despair.

Quietly, without another word, Evans looked at the frozen Earnest Smith, covered in blood, sacrificed by Grindelwald just for that one chance to destroy Evans’ rebellion. Tom silently handed Evans his own wand, pressing it into his fingers, and then watched as Evans raised his arm, pointed Tom’s wand directly at the back of Smith’s head.  

The cave, for a moment, was an eerie and fluorescent green, and then it was blindingly dark once again, Minerva still feverish, Evans a silent god with his hand still outstretched, Tom still a shadow at the edge of the sea staring in at it all, and Earnest Smith still frozen in place as if nothing in the world had altered itself at all.

* * *

The cave, this forgotten cave, it was becoming far too familiar.

“I’m not getting better, am I?” Minerva stared up at him with bleary eyes, a dull and amused sort of resignation in them, because she was right, she wasn’t getting better.

“I’m not a healer,” Tom responded softly, there was no need to though, Evans was sleeping again, slumped against a wall, half curled on himself, eyes closed… Evans always seemed to be sleeping these days. Perhaps he found it easier than anything else, because when he was awake, it was as if his eyes themselves were screaming.

“You haven’t found any other though, have you?” she coughed at the end of this, the sea air doing nothing for her lungs, but then, she wasn’t wrong. He’d looked, as the days passed he’d gone into what villages had used to be theirs but doors slammed in his face everywhere he turned.

There would be no more sympathy from Britain if there ever had been in the first place.

In the weeks that had passed since that last disastrous ambush, the massacre of the rebellion, it seemed as if the entire country finally knew that the jig was up. No, there would be no more healers for them, not without an imperious curse or lies of an unbelievable magnitude (because what kind of an accident could have happened to Minerva to make her look like she did, no, a healer would know in an instant).

“No, I’m afraid we’re stuck with each other,” he said and she smiled at that, tried to laugh, but it mostly turned into coughing.

“It’s fine, I’m… I’m not afraid to die, Tom,” she said finally, and she truly meant it, he thought, there was no doubt in her that she would not quake before the thought of oblivion.

“I am,” he admitted slowly, “Death has always terrified me.”

“Well,” she said, lifting her hand, her good hand, with shaking fingers so she could rest it on his, “It’s a good thing I’m the one dying then.”

“Do you think that it… That it will look like Hogwarts?” Minerva asked, almost desperately, “I hope, I hope it looks like Hogwarts, like Hogwarts used to.”

Darkness, an empty cruel darkness, that was what Tom had always imagined. But something in him stopped him from this, perhaps the coldness of her hand in his, and said, “I think that it will look like whatever you want it to… I don’t see why it can’t be Hogwarts.”

“Gryffindor… We’ll win the house cup and the quidditch cup,” she said with a weak smile, “And I’ll be headgirl, I think, and you… You’ll be head boy.”

“But I won’t be there,” he pointed out softly, but she didn’t seem to mind, seemed to be drifting further and further from him and this small cave by the sea.

“Of course you’ll be there,” she said quietly, “It’s Hogwarts, you have to be there… And we’ll have such good times, you and me, and we’ll take our NEWT exams…”

Her hand relaxed in his, dropping out of his fingers, and her eyes fluttered shut as she slipped into fevered dreaming once again. In and out of reality, that was Minerva McGonagall these days, and one day, perhaps soon, she wouldn’t come back at all.

But of course, with Evans constantly sleeping, it seemed that Tom was the only one left with his feet firmly planted in reality.

Wand over her, remembered spells from the room of requirement, he checked over her once again and, slowly, again, poured his strength into a spell that he hoped this time managed to stick.

* * *

The weeks trudged on and with Evans sliding headfirst into despair and McGonagall headfirst into death Tom found he lacked motivation for strategy or war and instead found himself, in whatever free time he had left between Minerva’s illness and Evan’s depression, he found himself in muggle pubs.

The muggles, the British and the Americans and the Soviets from the east, they were closing in on Germany, on Berlin.

The muggles, against all prior predictions, were winning their war.

And reading the papers, listening to the talk, something very concerning or interesting was happening because of it.

What happened, when the muggles won their war but the wizards lost their own? What happened when Grindelwald, in power on the continent now for more than two years, and with a strong foothold in England (unquestioned now with the rebellion’s slaughter), finally delivered what he had promised?

In Germany and France, the statute of secrecy was breaking down, British muggle newspapers showed men with wands on their front covers, spell light burning holes into tanks, guns blazing as they fired back at German dark wizards… Hitler’s last stand, they were leerily calling it, but even in the newspapers there was a tone of it being anything but of this being something else entirely.

Grindelwald had vowed to put the muggles into their place, to enslave them and likely their mudblood offspring, and he had chosen to do so at the worst possible time.

Looking down at a paper now, muggle beer in hand, he cast his eye about on these people who had survived bombings, who had survived rations, who had survived war and bloodshed on this tiny island, and he thought of how these people, after all this, were to take Grindelwald’s declaration of war once it became clear to them.

How had their prime minister, Churchill, put it again? Years ago, when it had caught Tom’s idle attention as it played on the orphanage’s radio, back when muggles were mere worms beneath his feet, worms who could very well cause his death with their bombs from the Luftwaffe.

“Never give in. Never give in. Never, never, never, never –in nothing, great or small, large or petty –never give in, except to convictions of honor and good sense. Never yield to force. Never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy.”

And he wondered, as he took in these people in their plain muggle clothing, that had been through one war already, if they would somehow have better luck than he and Evans had. He hoped, perversely, against all common sense, that they would give that German bastard a run for his galleons.

That they would indeed never give in.

At any rate, even as they celebrated now the end of the coming war, they were about to find themselves locked in a far greater one than even that.

“The war to end all wars,” Tom muttered to himself into his glass, “What an idea.”

* * *

Evans, slumped again against a wall, staring blank faced into the fire. Well, awake this time at least. Though it was hard enough to tell, as there was no reaction as Tom dumped food and jugs of water into a corner with a loud bang.

“So, you’re still alive then,” Tom remarked, Evans didn’t even flinch, not as Tom continued, “I’d seen more movement out of Minerva.”

Minerva herself was still curled in on herself, sleeping again, making up for the fact that Evans was awake, he supposed.

“Also, I think it’s official, we’ve lost the country, of course, you already knew that,” Tom said remarked as he grabbed an apple for himself, “The muggles have done well for themselves though, invading Berlin as we speak.”

Tom sat himself near the fire, across from Evans, warming his hands, “I wonder if this has ever happened before, the muggles winning while the wizards lose, it seems so often we’re tied in together. Where the British empire goes we follow, into China and India… Now though, they will face Grindelwald, and we’re not there to shield them.”

And for the first time in what seemed like weeks, Evans opened his mouth, a spark of awareness appearing in his eyes, “What do you mean?”

“You don’t think he’ll spare them, do you?” Tom asked, not remarking on Evans’ sudden return to life after having been a zombie, “These uppity muggles.”

“But.. They’re muggles.”

“Haven’t you read his propaganda?” Tom asked, “Grindelwald doesn’t believe in the statute of secrecy, he believes these muggles should know their place.”

“You mean he… He’s going to tell them, show them?” Evans asked in horror, “Everyone?”

“I imagine he’s going to kill them,” Tom said, “But he’ll make no pretense of hiding it.”

“He… He can’t do that, Riddle…” Evans lifted his head, moved forward, closer to the fire, “He’ll kill us all. He’ll destroy the world.”

“Destroy the world?” Tom asked incredulously, eyebrows raising as he took in Evans clear panic, a panic he’d never seen in him before, even at the worst of times, “I think you give Grindelwald a little too much credit, he may be an overpowered bastard but…”

Evans leaned forward, terror inside of as he corrected, with an energetic insistency that he hadn’t been capable of in weeks, “No, no, not him but… The muggles, the American muggles, they’ve built something. They’ve built a bomb, a horrible bomb that we’ve never seen like anything before. A single bomb that can wipe out an entire city, can cause cancer for decades… They can do it, Riddle, they can kill all of us, and if he makes them… And Grindelwald has no bloody idea.”

A bomb… Tom remembered the bombs, he remembered the Blitz… It always was going to be a bomb, wasn’t it?

“Well, that is bad,” Tom said half-heartedly but whatever life had left Evans seemed to come rushing back and he practically burned as he stared Tom in the eye.

“Yes, Riddle, it’s very bad! Very, very, bad! We all… Everyone could die!” He threw his hands out wide, breathing deeply, eyes blazing. And then, suddenly, almost feverishly, “We have to stop him, we have to stop this now, we have to stop Grindelwald from breaking the statute of secrecy from… from enslaving the muggles or whatever he’s doing.”

“Evans, we lost that fight,” Tom said slowly eyes widening, feeling something plunge into his heart, “You said it yourself, we have tried and failed.”

“We have no choice now! We can’t afford to lose!”

Tom shook his head, almost unwillingly, “We’re out of time, he’s made moves in France and Germany, the muggles are in his territory…”

“August,” Evans said suddenly, “August, 1945, I don’t know when they finished the bomb but that was when they dropped it, in my timeline, in August. We have until August.”

“August… A matter of months to retake England, cross the channel and liberate France and Eastern Europe… It cannot be done, Evans.”

By an army it could not be done, but they were only three people, one a school girl half dead, one foot half out the door already, and Evans with only a sporadic will to live. What possible hope of success could they possibly have?

“We… We assassinate him, Grindelwald, it’s the only way.” Evans continued, almost feverishly, sweat on his brow and shaking, “It’s our only hope now.”

Tom just stared at him numbly, feeling… empty, empty and drained, and so much more tired tan he used to, “We’ve tried and failed to do that for years… Dumbledore, himself, likely tried and failed to do just that.”

“It’s all we have,” Evans said and then, motioning to their surroundings, to Tom, to Minerva, and to himself, “It’s all we’ve got left.”

Three failed rebels, refugees in their own country, in a world torn apart by war and death, and the only prospect they had was the assassination of the greatest dark lord western Europe had ever seen or else face annihilation from the muggles themselves…

No, no he could not bring himself to believe in this future, not with the desperation of Evans.

In fact, Tom wondered if he had any faith left to believe in this world, in any future it possessed, at all.

* * *

“You know,” Evans said to him, later, in the dead of night, breathing the words into Tom’s ear, “Sometimes I think I never should have been born. All I do is cause death and destruction, and every time I think it can’t get worse…”

Tom said nothing, just stared him the eyes, this eyes that had come out of a future that no longer could possibly exist, Evans himself existing as a paradox, yet so very solid here in this cave with Tom, as if he belonged here just as much as anyone else did.

“If you could go back, Evans, would you?”

“Go back?” Evans asked.

“To your own time, leave this place, leave the muggles and the wizards and all of this death and destruction…”

“I… Would they even recognize me?” Evans asked instead, “It’s been years now… I’d be too old for Hogwarts, even.”

Tom said nothing to this, instead, closed his eyes and asked, “What is it like, in your world?”

“Not peaceful but… There’s no war, not like this, and Hogwarts is standing and my friends are… It’s wonderful, I miss it so much sometimes.” Harry said, “But I can never go back, I’ve… I’ve eliminated myself from history, how can we all go to Hogwarts if it isn’t even standing?”

“You played quidditch,” Tom said, distracting him.

“I… Yes, I was seeker, since my first year,” Evans said distractedly, “I loved that sport.”

“If you went back, would you still play?”

“Oh, of course, in a heartbeat,” Evans said with a smile, “I’d do everything again, even detention with Snape I’d do again...”

Evans trailed off and continued to look at the ceiling of the cave, but Tom, he laid back and thought, and in his head, there was a single beacon of hope, one tiny spot of light in the overwhelming dark.

There was no choice, he must research time, even as they madly prepared to assassinate Grindelwald, he must research, to send himself, Evans, and perhaps even Minerva back to Harry James Potter’s 1996, and forsake this doomed world that Grindelwald had created for them.

* * *

In the diary, Tom idly flipping through it, he came across a picture drawing itself, Earnest Smith, tied to a cross, his face slowly morphing into that of Evans while a crown of thorns, drawn in the blood that splattered the diary’s pages, engraved itself around his head.


	11. Chapter 11

_“The flesh surrenders itself… Eternity takes back its own. Our bodies stirred these waters briefly, danced with a certain intoxication before the love of life and self, dealt with a few strange ideas, then submitted to the instruments of Time”_  

-Dune Messiah, Frank Herbert

* * *

There was no moon out and as a result the dark choppy sea seemed to merge with the overcast night sky.

Even though it was early summer, it was still cold and dark as they pushed out from the shore in a stolen muggle vessel, a light notice-me-not charm cast on its surface, light enough to get them past the muggle military that still patrolled the beaches but not enough to get them noticed by the wizards who also routinely patrolled these beaches for those doing what Evans, Tom, and Minerva were now attempting to do.

Although, likely they assumed no wizard would be desperate enough to humiliate himself by either swimming or sailing like a muggle across the channel.

Tom and Evans pushed the boat out from the dock, Minerva in one of her half dozes again as she lay on the wooden floor of the vessel, and hastily they rigged up the sale, Tom casting a quick spell to direct them towards Normandy.

“How long will it take?”

“If we don’t drift off course, until morning, at least,” Tom said, but in that was the thought that neither he nor Evans had learned how to sail, and that Tom wanted to use as little magic as possible during this venture.

Easier to sneak past the muggles than it was the wizards.

“And then how long to Germany?”

“Longer, the German border is to the southeast if we’re going to be direct rather than crossing through Belgium, and once we’re on the continent we’re deep in Grindelwald’s territory, we’ll need to be quick on our feet to avoid patrols,” Tom said, which spelled out that it could be weeks, perhaps even months, especially with Minerva growing weaker by the day.

Tom did not want to say it out loud, but it became increasingly clear, that one of these days they would be burying her.

“But we’ll be in Berlin by the end of August?” Evans asked, but in an insistent manner, as if Tom’s answer had to be positive.

“God willing,” Tom simply replied before sitting down, watching as the night breeze blew into the sail and the waves rocked their small boat, “And god willing Grindelwald will be there too.”

“Where else would he go?” Evans asked, almost accusing as he stared out towards the horizon, towards the unseen shores of France.

“The world is his oyster, Evans, half of Europe is now under his thumb,” Tom pointed out, “Where wouldn’t he go?”

And, more importantly, the words he didn’t say aloud, if they succeeded in Evans’ mad quest, then would it really stop this? Would it stop the muggles for that matter once they learned the truth about the world they lived in?

However, these weren’t words that Evans was ready to hear, so Tom bit his tongue.

“Thank you.”

Tom was torn out of his musings, staring down at Evans in shock, “I’m sorry?”

“I just wanted to say, thank you, I know…” Evans sighed, looked at him then, and those green eyes seemed to pierce once again through to Tom’s very soul, “I know that you don’t want to do this, that you don’t think it will work, and that you’re probably right. But you’re still here, so… thank you, Tom.”

“Well,” Tom drawled as he inspected the sail once again, his wand firmly pointed towards France, “It wasn’t as if I had anything better to do.”

To this Evans offered him a rather sardonically amused smile, because he knew, of course, that anything in the world was better than charging towards one’s certain death. Still, in a way Evans was right, if the world as Tom knew it would soon come to an end, then better to die in some attempt to save it.

What a thought, a few years ago Tom would have been appalled at himself, when had he become so disgustingly noble?

Still, there was one other impossible avenue of escape that haunted the edges of his thoughts…

“What did you learn about time travel, out of curiosity, during that first year in Hogwarts?” Tom asked.

“Oh, Merlin, I don’t even remember,” Evans said with a despairing shake of his head, “Bloody good it did any of us, eh?”

“Indulge me,” Tom prompted, “Surely something will come to mind.”

“Well, most of it said that you can’t go this far back, otherwise you turn into goo. You know, useful stuff like that. Nothing on going forward in time either…” Evans hand waived this off with that same somewhat amused and nostalgic smile.

“The only thing I really got down was that crushing a bunch of time turners all at the same time is a bad idea,” Evans finally finished with a small laugh, “Which, really, I could have told them that.”

“What about why you’re still here?” Tom asked, “Even when we were still in Hogwarts you said you caused rather large changes, surely, you must have researched that as well.”

“Sure, but no one really writes about that,” Evans said with a exhausted and rather indifferent shrug, “That’s all hypothetical nonsense, or at least, what most of the books said. They’d spend maybe a sentence on what would happen to a time traveler who created a paradox… Some said I’d turn into goo, some said I’d destroy my own original reality and become some sort of paradox myself, some said I’d create a branch, and some said I’d be snapped back into my own world. Well, the last clearly didn’t happen, but as for the rest, who knows…”

“It’s worth thinking about,” Tom pointed out, “It’s not theoretical for you, after all.”

“Yeah, but, I mean… What are we going to do about it?” Evans asked, looking rather entertained by Tom’s comment, “Even if my version of 1996 still exists out there somewhere, how would I ever get there? But I guess it’s a nice thought, to imagine that they’re all still there, waiting for me…”

Somehow that did seem to comfort him, as Evans closed his eyes, looking at peace for the first time in weeks as he prepared to meet his maker, somewhere out there in Berlin, this idea that his friends and family would persist in some other untouchable world.

The small smile on his lips, filled with bittersweet nostalgia.

Tom, closed his own eyes briefly, then allowed himself to look back over his shoulder towards the fading British shore, the homeland he would likely never see again, not in this world at the very least.

He thought back on his childhood, on Hogwarts, on the rolling hills of Scotland, the rocky shore of Black Lake, and even the morning mist of London…

And though it could be just the wind in his eyes, he swore he felt the prickling of tears at the edge of his vision, as he offered one final wave to his homeland, “Goodbye, Britain.”

* * *

On the battered shores of Normandy, the evidence of the Allies arrival was still more than evident. There were blackened divots in the beach where none had been before, German bunkers facing out towards the sea…

They quickly landed, carried Minerva between them, and abandoned their vessel, sticking close to muggle troops and away from the wizards posts still more than active. Then began the long, dread filled march towards the eastern border with Germany, ducking under trees and into caves at the sign of any enemy movement, sticking to the rural countryside and away from any major city or magical enclave.

And everywhere there was visible evidence that the war with the muggles was over but the war with the wizards had begun, desecrated muggle corpses lined the countryside, wreaking of dark magic and French and German pureblood slurs written in glowing writing over them. In the distance they could hear the rattle of gunfire and the boom of tanks, spell light would flash like colored lightning over the horizon.

“Don’t they realize what they’re doing?” Evans asked quietly at one point as they stared out towards the sound and sight of battle.

“It’s the high of war, Evans,” Tom responded softly, “You of all people know what that tastes like… I imagine they’re not thinking at all, and if they are, then it’s that they’re only muggles. And what have muggles ever been capable of?”

Minerva, as predicted, grew worse, her lucid moments were few and far between, her conscious moments even fewer and further, it was a good day when she recognized Tom at all, and when she did he inevitably still seemed to be head boy to her and Hogwarts still standing.

She’d babble about quidditch or Transfiguration and anything in between, and Tom, he’d nod his head and agree at all the right moments.

And that… He felt more about that fact than he’d ever thought himself capable. Perhaps, in some other world, or even in this one if there had been more time, then perhaps they could have been friends.

For whatever friendship was worth to someone like Tom.

Tom, for his own part, when Evans was on guard and Minerva safely drifting off towards that other plane, watched as the diary sketched out the beaches of Normandy, the great endless night on the channel, the sky painted black and red from the clouds and spells like a sunset in hell, Evans’ smile filled with nostalgia, and items that must have been from Evans’ own mysterious past in a world that now never was.

A gangly boy with hair dyed red from the blood of soldiers and a smaller bushy haired girl, both in Hogwarts uniforms with striped red ties, smiling across at a younger bespectacled Evans’ bearing his own Gryffindor tie.

Evans in a too large knitted sweater, red, with an ‘H’ emblazoned on the front in great looping stiches, Evans looking down at it in shock and awe, as if he’d never seen anything so fine in all his life.

Eventually, Tom surmised, this was the diary’s way of telling Tom that it wanted to chat, by piquing Tom’s curiosity.

And there was, though he hated to admit it, curiosity when he regarded these younger eerily realistic sketches of Evans. Some of it was for Evans and the world he grew up in, the world Voldemort had nearly conquered, but also there was one far more nagging, the fact that the diary knew these details that it had no business knowing.

A fact that it no doubt knew, since it had the alarming capacity to scheme and know and do all those things that Tom had believed it to be incapable of, Tom would ask after.

Tom had avoided writing in it since landing in France, looking at it, certainly, but writing inside… It wreaked too much of weakness, of giving into some temptation he couldn’t name, for him to be entirely content with.

However, enough, eventually, was enough and halfway through France, just north of Paris, he wrote on the pages without any preamble, _“What do you want?”_

As always, the sketch of the hour, this time of an alarmingly pretty young girl with silver hair, likely part veela offering Tom a rather contemptuous glare, stopped, then collapsed, the ink rearranging itself to form the diary’s usual sardonic words.

_“Oh good, you’re still alive,”_ a pause, the words fading, then below them another sentence appearing, _“I was fairly certain you were still among the living but forgive me, sometimes it’s hard to tell, the days are long in here.”_

_“What do you want?”_ Tom repeated with a grimace.

_“Intelligent conversation,”_ and in Tom’s head there was the idea of a rather amused laugh, _“Honestly, Tom, you wouldn’t believe how dull it gets inside this place. Leave me alone too long and I swear I’ll go mad.”_

_“You weren’t supposed to think in the first place,”_ Tom pointed out rather tersely.

_“Yes, well, if wishes were horses then beggars would ride,”_ the diary quickly responded back before adding, _“But I’m here, and I think therefore I am, and there’s nothing either of us can do about it. No matter how unnerving you find me.”_

And there was an irony in that, that Tom found himself so very unnerving, but it was an undeniable truth as well. The diary… It was unnerving, there was no other word for it.

_“Well, what kind of intelligent conversation were you looking for?”_ Tom’s words bled into the page, his handwriting rushed, and far inferior to the ones of the other half of his soul, but they disappeared into the pages soon enough.

_“Oh, any kind will do,”_ the diary responded, _“But I suppose I can start things off, how about our good friend Harry James Potter?”_

_“You want to talk about Evans?”_ Tom asked rather wryly, wondering why this somehow didn’t surprise him, even though it felt like it should.

_“Don’t sound so unenthused, Tom, he’s had a very fascinating life,”_ the diary chided before continuing, _“But yes, I’ll start us off, I know something you don’t know.”_

That, was hardly intelligent conversation, but then, as Tom read those teasing words he felt that was entirely the point of them. This, was where whatever the diary’s scheme was came into play. Now it was up to Tom whether he chose to indulge his own horcrux.

_“Come on, Tom, aren’t you curious?”_ the diary goaded in black curved letters on the white pages.

_“No, not particularly,”_ Tom responded with easy handwriting, entirely more than ready to slam the diary shut and get whatever sleep he needed, _“Was that all you had to say to me?”_

_“Well, I was going to say that I know a lot of things you don’t know, most of them small details that honestly wouldn’t interest you, but I also know something that you desperately wish to know. Something you’ve been thinking about for a long time now.”_

Well, wasn’t that ominous, and irritating?

_“Well, what is it?”_ Tom wrote, more than at the end of his patience now, rubbing the bridge of his nose and asking himself why he was even putting up with this when there were so many better things he could be doing.

_“I know why Harry James Potter is trapped in this timeline, more, I know how to send him back.”_

Now that, caught Tom’s attention, _“What?”_

_“You’re not blind, Tom,”_ the diary responded, and then, silence, waiting for Tom’s response, that white page almost seeming to scream at him.

_“Well, aren’t you going to tell me?!”_ Tom hastily scrawled across the page and the words, slowly, too slowly, bled into the white paper.

_“War has made you impatient and dull, Tom,”_ and he could almost hear a sigh coming from the diary, as if Tom exasperated him entirely. Then, these words faded, replaced by ones written in the red blood of too many men to count, _“I don’t think you’re ready for that answer yet.”_

The words almost seemed to fly from his pen, _“What are you talking about?! The sooner we can leave this place the better! There is nothing tying us here! I am more than ready…”_

Overtop of Tom’s word, bloodied fingers emerged from the page, the grotesque form of Tom Marvolo Riddle himself crawling out from some great white abyss, blood streaking down his face and a desolate look in his eyes.

Then, repeated, in words that spanned both pages in a mixture of ink and blood in great jagged letters, like those that he had painted on Hogwarts walls in roosters’ blood, _“I don’t think you’re ready for that answer yet, Tom.”_

Then, abruptly, the pages were clean and pristine white again, a single sentence, in perfect penmanship, in the center of the righthand page, _“Come back later, Tom, when you’re ready. And we’ll talk.”_

And Tom’s furious scribbling, his demands of, _“You’ll tell me now! I’m ready now! Don’t you hear me?! Tell me!”_ just faded into the diary, eliciting no response from Tom’s soul which rested inside. The diary making it more than clear that their intelligent conversation had ended.

* * *

A week later, almost to the minute, Minerva McGonagall died.

* * *

They were in a forest in northern France, hidden in a warded clearing among the trees, standing over the body of a young woman who, now, would never look back up at them.

“We should say something,” Evans said, standing over her corpse, looking down at her with eyes duller than Tom had ever seen them. Something, just looking at her, seemed to have gone out of him.

It’d been quiet, if Tom had been less diligent in checking her vitals while she slept, they likely wouldn’t have noticed. She’d been quiet for weeks now.

Even now, though her face was pale, gaunt, and sickly, she looked the same as she had any other day since they’d reached France. Death had been chasing her for weeks though, it had finally caught up.

“You should say something,” Evans corrected, a lump seeming to catch in his throat, “I… I barely knew her.”

“We weren’t friends,” Tom said, “But then… we might have been close enough.”

“She was my professor, one of the best I ever had,” Harry said, a wobbling smile stretching across his lips, “My head of house too, for Gryffindor.”

“And you know, I think she was, a Gryffindor, more than anyone else I can think of. She wasn’t afraid to die, and that’s… That’s very rare,” Tom said and then, allowing himself a softer smile than he thought possible, “The world will be a darker place without her in it.”

Evans didn’t seem to feel the need to add to that, and, for that matter, neither did Tom. Perhaps she deserved a better eulogy, but then, too many did. Without further ado, Tom lit her body on fire, watched as it burned with Tom’s magic for fuel until nothing remained but her ashes, scattering into the wind.

Without further ado, Tom and Evans turned, picked up their packs, and continued southeast towards Germany and the death of Grindelwald.

And Tom’s vision of 1996, his fantasy of a world he’d never seen, now had a gaping hole inside of it that Minerva McGonagall had once occupied.

* * *

It was perhaps inevitable that he’d do exactly what the other half of his soul expected him to, but then, war was a tiring, draining, thing that shifted and turned Tom Riddle into the antithesis of what he’d been before.

Something the diary could dangle from strings and watch as Tom Marvolo Riddle danced.

However, in his rage, he couldn’t bring himself to care. He took the diary out from under his shirt, ignoring Evans’ sleeping form, and practically ripped it open.

_“You,”_ he wrote into the diary think ink hemorrhaging into the page, _“Have caused more than enough damage.”_

For a moment the diary did not respond, then, slowly, it remarked, _“My condolences, Tom.”_

Tom paid this no mind though as he continued to write.

_“I brought you into this world, don’t forget that I can take you back out of it,”_ the ink stained Tom’s fingers as he wrote smearing up onto his hands, _“You are nothing more than a shell of what I am and we both know it.”_

The diary seemed to consider this, the brazen threat in Tom’s words, and then said, _“Perhaps it’s best we meet face to face for this, so much gets lost in the written word alone. Please, Tom, step into my parlor.”_

And then Tom was falling, falling through the diary and somehow inside of it, where the Slytherin common room, warm and comforting and untouched by war, awaited him, with a doppelganger of himself in prefect’s robes standing inside.

It was such a surreal thing, too, because Tom couldn’t remember the last time he had bothered to look into a mirror or had any opportunity to do so.

“That’s better,” the other Tom, the diary, remarked, “It’s good to see you, after all this time.”

“All this time?” Tom scoffed, “It’s only been a few months.”

The diary, wearing Tom’s shoulders, shrugged and offered Tom a somewhat amused smile as he took a seat by the fireplace, “Well, you’ve changed. This, for example, this lack of composure… it’s very new. You’ve become… softer, I think.”

“Softer?” Tom asked with narrowed eyes but the diary seemed anything but perturbed.

“You wouldn’t have blinked before, and we both know it, since when do the likes of us care about the likes of Minerva McGonagall?” the diary asked, and it said far too much that Tom had nothing to say to that, because it had a point, wearing Tom’s face so easily as it did, Tom shouldn’t care at all, “But enough of that, I believe, that you had a question for me.”

“No, not a question,” Tom corrected, stalking forward until he was towering over his horcrux, “An accusation. That was unnecessary and you know it.”

“Was it?” the diary questioned, then, with a pale hand, motioned to the other seat, “Sit, Tom, you’re making me nervous glowering down in judgement like that.”

Tom made no move, the diary motioning again with a little more insistence, “Sit, please, you are in polite company.”

Reluctantly, with a tension he could hardly explain to himself, Tom sat in the seat.

The diary offered him Tom Riddle’s patented charming smile, the kind he had given to Slughorn on so very many occasions, “There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Tom said nothing, just stared, allowing the silence to stretch itself and form jagged edges, cutting into the false reality around them.

Finally, the diary broke the quiet in a calm and entirely too composed voice, “To answer the question, Tom, that you haven’t asked, I said I knew how to return Harry Potter to 1996, I said nothing about Minerva McGonagall or you for that matter.”

Oh, oh Tom had never wanted so badly to kill anyone in his life, not even Evans…

“And what good does that do anyone?” Tom asked, his voice devoid of all inflection, all emotion, seeming beyond emotion entirely now as he thought of his wasted rage and all of the corpses.

The diary considered him, then said, as if entirely indifferent in the face of Tom’s maelstrom of rage, “More importantly, I think you’re ready to hear why.”

Leaning forward, a gleam in his pale blue eyes, the diary said with Tom Riddle’s lips, “Harry James Potter is a horcrux.”

“What?” Tom asked, it was so… absurd, that he felt some of his anger diminishing in the sheer confusion of trying to understand what that even meant.

The diary, however, didn’t falter, “He is the horcrux of the Voldemort we could have been, once upon a time, and so in a sense, is also our own horcrux.”

Tom felt an absurd smile growing on his lips, “That’s an interesting theory you’ve made for yourself.”

Unspoken was the thought that perhaps the diary had a little too much time on his hands inside this notebook of his.

“Not a theory,” the diary corrected evenly, “He is a horcrux. Granted, he seems to be just as unaware of this as you yourself are, but he is.”

“A human horcrux?” Tom asked throwing his hands into the air with a somewhat bemused laugh, “But that’s absurd! Why would anyone, why would I make something like that? Humans are mortal, putting a horcrux inside one defeats the purpose of even having a horcrux to begin with!”

“Haven’t you noticed that strange, instinctual, eerie connection you two share? How sometimes you find his thoughts slipping into yours or yours slipping into his? How you seem to be able to find him over great distances and step into his dreams?” the diary stopped, paused, and then remarked, “Because I certainly have, Tom.”

No, Tom had as well, but that didn’t mean… Surely, it couldn’t mean… There had to be some other explanation for how the diary had gathered so much intelligence about Evans’ past, how Tom seemed to hear Evans’ pounding in his head, the way Evans seemed to be able to stare into his very soul…

The diary continued, as if Tom were not coming to terms with information that was earth shattering, “The only thing keeping Harry James Potter confined to this warped timeline, rather than hurled back to where he belongs, is Tom Marvolo Riddle himself. Thus, to return to his own time, it is beyond simple, Tom Marvolo Riddle must die.”

The words seemed to echo, Tom lifted his head and stared at the unsympathetic form of his doppelganger, who was staring back without flinching.

“Reality is stretched thin, like a rubber band, and that one small death will be enough to catapult Harry Potter back into his own present of 1996.”

A slow, sinking, horror bled down his throat painting his lungs in ice, “No, that can’t be…”

“Life, is the greatest magic there is, and the willing sacrifice of it, even more so. You know this as well as I do, and you know that it will be more than enough,” his doppelganger cut in mercilessly, not even letting Tom get in a disbelieving breath.

Tom stared at him, at himself, in horror, waiting for something, anything to intervene and shift this scene on its head, but nothing did. Finally, in a voice that he dared not let tremble, he asked, “Why even bother to tell me this?”

“This may be the best avenue of escape for us, the only path we have left,” the diary said, folding Tom’s hands together and giving Tom a rather frank look, “This Grindelwald assassination plot is suicide, we both know it, even Harry knows it. It is the last noble cause of a pair of desperate men before everything you’ve ever known flickers out. However, if you give the diary to Harry Potter, if you sacrifice your mortal body, then we are guaranteed survival. Your horcrux will exist in another dimension, one free from a wizarding war on this level, guarded by Evans himself. You will effectively be immortal. More, perhaps your half of the soul, bodiless then, will be pulled by my presence over the great divide into Harry Potter’s 1996.”

Tom sneered, “Why do you think I’d ever agree to this?”

The diary offered him a smile laced with pity, “I’m just putting out the option, Tom, for when all hope is lost.”

And with that last comment, Tom found himself thrown out of the diary, back into his own body, breathing heavily as his eyes flung open to stare up at the night sky. Rolling onto his side, making to stand up, he caught sight of the diary, still open, a great faded red desert sketched across its pages, and a cloud in the shape of a mushroom on the horizon.

Over top of this, in elegant writing, the words, “I am become death, destroyer of worlds”, stared back at Tom before fading back into the white pages.

* * *

“When will we reach the border?”

It was late, dew beginning to form on the blades of grass, and around them the night seemed so eerily quiet, as if even the crickets and the toads knew that a wizarding war was taking place. Or perhaps it was simply Tom, who lately found everything so eerily quiet.

“Soon, a few days,” Tom said quietly, “But we have a while to go in Germany as well.”

“Do you think there will be trouble?” Evans asked.

“I don’t know,” Tom responded, “If we’re lucky, it will be as easy as the channel.”

And if not then they had been in fights before, surely, they would survive this one too. Surely, they had not come so far for so long only to be shot down now.

“Tom.”

Tom stopped, looked over at Evans with a rather wid- eyed slack-jawed look on his face, and he wondered, had he ever called him Tom before?

“Tom, I want you to promise me something,” Evans said, a strange insistence in his green eyes as he looked at Tom, “You know, since we’re not currently facing certain death.”

“I won’t make a promise I can’t keep,” Tom responded, but this just seemed to amuse Evans, his lips quirking into a smile before the solemn look returned.

“You can keep this one,” Evans said before taking a breath and stating, “I want you to promise, after all of this, that you become a good person. To the best of your ability, anyway. Don’t become a dark lord, don’t kill muggleborns and children or anyone else. Even if I’m not here, especially if I’m not here, just… be what you always could have been.”

Evans motioned to their surroundings, that derisive smile back on his face, “This is the only thing I can think to give the world, they may have to deal with Grindelwald, and maybe I ruined everything, but if I can keep Voldemort from them… Then that’s something, at least.”

Yes, that was something, and perhaps it was something that should infuriate Tom beyond measure, that Evans was stealing that last pining dream from him. Evans, who was the shadow of his own soul, so that even now when Tom looked at him he could see a reflection of himself staring out of those green eyes.

Tom smiled back, “Evans, don’t you know? Ever since you killed the basilisk, Voldemort never had a chance of existing.”

And for the first time in years, it seemed that Harry Evans, Harry James Potter, understood what that meant.

“Do you remember when we loathed one another, Evans?” Tom asked, staring up at the night sky, “Life seemed so much simpler then, when our greatest challenges were those of our own creation.”

“You mean your creation,” Evans said with a scoff, “You were the one who released the bloody basilisk.”

“Yes, still, I pale in comparison to Grindelwald,” Tom responded with a sly smile.

“You would have done damage in your own time, if that means anything to you,” Evans said, “Still, I’m glad at least, that even if I’ve destroyed the world, I at least made some kind of difference with you.”

“You think so?” Tom asked, it seemed a steep price to pay, but then, could any less have touched Tom Marvolo Riddle? Tom himself wasn’t sure.

“Well, there has to be some sort of silver lining in here somewhere, right?” Evans gave a grin that was entirely too cheeky, belonging on the face of a much younger man, maybe the moody, terse, fifth year version of himself rather than this war-hardened one.

“Perhaps,” Tom said, and then, staring out into the horizon, toward the border and the never-ending war they seemed caught in, “Harry, why haven’t you given up on these people? When they’re clearly so intent upon destroying one another?”

Had Tom been on his own, then no doubt, he long ago would have washed his hands of all of them, for better or worse.

“I don’t know,” Evans said slowly, then, giving Tom a rather pensive look, “An old friend always said I had a saving people thing… Maybe it’s my destiny to spend too much energy saving people from themselves, and if I didn’t do it, well, I wouldn’t be me.”

I wouldn’t be me…

But what was Evans, exactly? How could he answer something like that, smile back at Tom, and yet still wear his face like a mask over a fragment of Tom’s soul? Because, somehow, impossibly, in this quiet moment before the sun rose, Tom thought that he saw what the diary had seen all too easily.

That he and Evans, in some strange inexplicable way, were mirrors of each other. And that both existed, in this strange balancing act, only because the other was there. As soon as one disappeared, the other, then, would be granted his freedom.

* * *

_“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives.”_

* * *

It was silent as they reached the border, just as it had been silent through all of France, the only sound Tom’s footsteps, heartbeat, and breathing. And for a moment, there was an opening, only a few idle guards, Evans darting forward as he always did with a steel pipe in hand, Tom with his wand out, blazing past the patrol, the killing curse exiting his wand without a thought…

And in truth, they must have missed, because Tom only stumbled forward with a cry, his side on fire, able to turn and kill the caster without missing a beat. A single lucky shot…

But sometimes, that was all it took.

Evans grabbed him, even as Tom’s shaking hand put pressure on the wound, blood seeping through his clothing, and apparated them back into France, paying no mind to the way the wards tore at Tom’s injury.

“Oh shit, oh Merlin shit,” Evans chanted, replacing Tom’s hand with his own, even as Tom swayed in place, seeing stars…

“Riddle, Tom, Tom, you have to tell me what to do! Give me your wand and tell me what to cast!” Evans said, Tom looking down, blinking, seeing the desperation on Evans’ face as he stared up at him, “Remember, we’ve done this before. It’s no different from all the other times, just a little worse than usual. You have to get it together Tom. Tom, please, Tom! Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it!”

The sun was setting, how had he not noticed? It painted everything in shades of red, purple, and gold, and the longer he stared at it the more he wondered that he hadn’t noticed only moments before.

And staring out into the golden light, feeling even as the warmth left his fingertips, that light somehow seeping in him, he found himself smiling, and coming to a decision that by all rights should have been impossible.

“Harry,” with shaking, bloodstained fingers, Tom brushed away Evans’ hands and reached into his shirt, pulling out the now bloodstained diary and handing it to Evans.

“What is… What is that?” Evans asked, but by the look on his face, he knew exactly what it was. Somehow, in some other world, Evans had seen this diary before.

“Harry, I need you to keep this safe for me.” Tom insisted, pushing the book into Evans fingers.

“No, no, that thing is evil, Riddle! It almost killed me and…”

“Is that so?” Tom asked, a smile growing on his lips, somehow not surprised, but all the same he said, feeling increasingly light headed as he kept standing, “I promise, this one won’t do that, it’s… I’m different, Harry, and you’ll know what to do, I know it.”

Evans fingers reluctantly curled around the black leather cover, and Tom immediately let his shaking fingers drop away from the cover, feeling the instinctive loss of letting a piece of his own soul go.

“I’m telling you, Tom, I don’t want whatever this thing is and… What are you doing?”

Tom reached out towards him once again, drew him in with shaking arms, and whispered into his ear, “The last thing I can, my final gift to you, Harry.”

Evans arms instinctively moved to Tom’s shoulder’s squeezing him back, even now saying, “Look, you’re losing a lot of blood and you’re out of it and I’ll take your wand if I have to…”

“You’re the closest thing I’ve had to a brother,” Tom continued, cutting Evans off before he could start, “When you get to the other side, please, don’t forget this place or everything I’ve done. And when you see that bastard Voldemort, kill him for being everything I never got the chance to.”

Somehow, it was both the hardest and easiest thing in the world, to push Evans away from him, Evans still holding onto the diary, and turn his wand on himself.

“ _Avada Kedavera_ ”

* * *

May, 1996

Gasping, crawling out of the dust of scattered time machines, Harry James Evans, with bloodstained fingers and a black diary clutched in his shaking hands, stood, and inconceivably, found himself right back where he’d started.

As if nothing had changed at all.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is the answer to every time-travel Harry Potter fic to Tom Riddle's era that I have ever seen. Now, these stories aren't bad, I hold nothing against them but I didn't ever find what I was looking for. I wanted the bleakness, the despair, Voldemort as a far off distant vision yet to be realized, Harry's interventions come at great consequence, and when things go to hell they truly go to hell.
> 
> Thanks for reading, comments, kudos, and bookmarks are greatly appreciated.


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